


This Kind

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mpreg, Non Consensual, Omega!John, Priest!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kinkmeme prompt: </p><p>Omega!John is a priest in a quiet country parish. He takes pills and suppressants to hide his omega-ness (inner fight between religion and homosexuality-mpreg) It's a really quiet place. Nothing ever happens to him. </p><p>Until one day there's a murder in the village.</p><p>Warnings for blasphemy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smells Like Murder

**Author's Note:**

> The full prompt: 
> 
> Omega!John is a priest in a quiet country parish. He takes pills and suppressants to hide his omega-ness (inner fight between religion and homosexuality-mpreg) It's a really quiet place. Nothing ever happens to him. Until one day there's a murder in the village.
> 
> Alpha!Sherlock is there to investigate. He smells wonderfully strong and confident. This, and the stress caused by the murder triggers John into a sudden heat. (why don't the pills work?) Again, conflict between nature and belief.
> 
> Nature wins and they bond. In the church. On the altar.
> 
> After the heat John helps Sherlock to solve the puzzle (and to find out why the pills stopped working).
> 
> *-*-*
> 
> For the sake of the prompt, being a homosexual in this verse is the same as our society: a relationship between two of the same sex (in this case, a man and a man).
> 
> Now with a Chinese translation here.

John felt the pill touch the back of his throat. His adam's apple bobbed with the reflexive swallow before he tipped back the glass of water to drown the gag-worthy taste of the pill. The Omega was honestly shocked he could even endure the taste of the pill without any food or flavor to aid in its passage. He had been taking these pills for some time, but the taste was never any better. 

He took the pills regularly - every day. They were new and very innovative, but particularly frowned upon in society outside of the Church. It was, of course, mostly the Alpha who were the frowners, and many passive Betas, but John didn't quite blame them. They didn't understand what it was like for someone like himself, who was forced into this situation, to take these pills. 

The pills repressed his heat (non-existent now), dulled his scent to the point where no one had the faintest unless they knew he was an Omega, and worked equally as birth control pills. Anyone who was not an Omega couldn't understand how completely wrong it was for a male Omega, like him, to be forced into this awful, uncontrollable heat that consumed the body and mind. Throughout the heat, it was impossible not to think of a thick, beautifully curved penis pushing inside to scratch at that irritating itch. John couldn't possibly recall the number of times he'd come simply from the image. He was never satisfied, always crying for more.

For years he'd suffered through each aching, monthly heat, and finally he'd found a way. John was a priest; celibate. The very idea of giving himself to any Alpha for their pleasure and his impregnation made his skin crawl. It went against the word of God. It was immoral for a man to be stretched in such a (delicious, heavenly, wrong) way. Female Omegas had much more natural, open cavities and they were faired better for bearing, so naturally they were the chosen of God's children to bear that weight. The knowledge of having that secret passage inside himself, capable of birthing a child was nearly revolting.

Nearly. There was, however small, a deep internal instinct that urged him to mate. That, with every coming month, there was still something he should be doing, the tiniest ache throbbing, deep, deep inside.

No. John pushed those thoughts resolutely out of his mind and focused on the task at hand. He was walking through the pews, methodically looking for any spare lost items or rubbish. It was a very small in which he lived, and the residents occupying it were very nice, open people. If anything was left it was either by accident or by a petulant child, which itself was rare. Father John checked anyway, every service.

There were two services a week; one on Wednesday, the other Sunday. It was always rather dull and slow within the confines of the church, and awfully lonely at times. That didn't mean that he didn't enjoy the work; no, quite the opposite. He was under the will of God, doing as He wanted. He was content with this dull, boring town.

 

No, no. This town is wonderful. Small and tranquil, everyone knows each other. John berated himself, but couldn't quite quel the thoughts that surfaced. Nothing ever happened here. Nothing happened to John or anyone for that matter. Everyone talked and chatted and even confessions on Wednesdays were common and simple (I stole a cookie from mum, ect).

 

The Omega sighed as he slowly walked back towards the front pew, neck itching from the constant too-tight dress he wore. On his time off, John liked to liked to lift weights and keep himself fit (well, as fit as one with his sort of handicap could get. Running especially was difficult with his limp); anything to take his mind off of the swirling thoughts that plagued him daily. The Omega rested a hand gently against the alter, knowing he should fill upon wafers soon.

He sighed. Sometimes, he admitted, it really was dull.

 

* * *

 

The murder was discovered at 8 o'clock Friday morning, by Miss Molly Hooper. She was the medic of the town (as well as the mortician, but those jobs were not often) and knew her way around an autopsy (John should know, he was - had been - in the army).

John was called as soon as the news spread (which was fast) and he followed the elderly Mrs. Turner to the scene of the crime(?). The body looked fresh, but on inspection John could see something wasn't quite right.

Molly told the local and state police her story with many breaks and interjections ("I saw and body, and it was - well it was awful. Have you ever seen a freshly dead body? It's terrible. And you know -" "Miss Hooper." "Oh, sorry."), but when they finally decoded her speech it seemed she had found the body when she was walking past the river - a leg sticking out from under the bridge.

From what John was gathering by the scattered conversation around him - in between shooing the nosy children and their mothers from the scene - was that the body had most likely come down the river and their murderer would be in the next down over. John moved over to the dead body - after assuring them with his old military ID that he was qualified - and peered at it closely. It looked fresh, but not quite. Wary of his limp, he leaned down and gave it a whiff, his nose crinkling. The police might not notice the stench quite yet, but he would.

Methanol. At least he believed this sharp odor was methanol...methanol was used in alcohol. Why would a man smell of alcohol if he came down the river and looked to be at least a few nights old? He touched the skin on the hand. Stiff. Dry.

John licked his lips and turned to Molly. "Molly, come smell this." She knelt beside him, unshaken as always - though she made a face - and gave it a good whiff. "Is that—?"

"Methanol, I think." She brightened.

"The kind that people mix with to preserve the dead!" Oh. That would make more sense. It also made things a lot more complicated. That meant it would be nearly impossible to tell when the man was killed. Bugger. Well, they'd have to wait for the autopsy anyway. No, wait. John wasn't waiting for anything. He was going to go back to his church and listen to everyone confess their meager sins. This business had nothing to do with him.

With that resolution John bid Molly a goodbye and spoke to the police, letting them handle the whole thing. Father John had a church to take care of.

 

* * *

 

By 5 p.m. he was sure that the whole mess was behind him. Although some people came by to ask for a talk after the dreadful events of this murder-to-be-announced, it was very quiet and serene. He loved the people in this small place, he really did. It was just that once the sermons were over and he could relax in a nice, silent church everything seemed a whole lot better. And more peaceful. He felt attuned to God, felt close to him when it was just himself in this temple of the Lord. This was why he'd joined the Church. For this closure, for the —

The front doors slammed closed, the swift click of boots echoing loudly in the tranquil place. John stood up from his desk in one of the back rooms, one hand immediately reaching for his gun. No, no. This was a house of God.

Anxiously he approached the main corridor to find that a tall, dark, and pale man in an equally dark trench coat was staring at the stained-glass depictions of angels that adorned the walls, a condescending smirk in place.

As John approached, careful and inquisitive, he felt it. His skin prickled slightly, eyes widening. This man was an Alpha. He oozed confidence and strength, his thin, long body seeming utterly powerful under the dark shadows of the church. John stopped for a moment, breath catching. He smelled good. The barest hint of lust trickled down John's back and he bit his lip hard. He'd never felt such a strong presence from any Alpha before and it sent prickles up and down his spine.

No, no, no. He could not let himself get distracted by his pale...long...elegant figure and be led into temptation. He was in God's palace.

"Can I help you?" he asked the dark figure, keeping his breathing even when the man turned to face him. He seemed puzzled.

"You're the priest?"

John raised his brow, motioning to his clothing, as if it wasn't obvious enough.

"Interesting. You're the priest. A man who's been to Afghanistan - or Iraq. Most likely high ranked - and has seen more death than anyone in this God-awful village." The man slowly approached John, eyes glittering a brilliant blue-green-grey-he-really-wasn't-sure. His gait was almost predatory and John forced himself not to flinch. John tilted his chin up and pulled his weight forward against the Alpha's dominant threat.

"How the hel-heck did you know that?" John's voice was low and dangerous. Had someone told this man? Was he some kind of stalker? "Who are you?"

"Inconsequential. I could tell simply by looking. Your left hand by your side was curled in the same way one holds a gun - suggesting a military career - and you're still tan, though the lines are almost faded, which means you were somewhere with a decent amount of sun. 

“Now, where could a soldier go to get a long-lasting natural tan and an obvious limp—psychosomatic, of course, which you already know. Therapy never worked out for you so you quit. Afghanistan or Iraq most likely. 

“You walk and hold yourself like a soldier, as you did when you saw me, an Alpha. You were threatened but held your ground. Either you have great pride or you're used to holding your ground against people who don't respect you. Ergo, someone who holds a high rank but because of your size had to earn the respect," The Alpha paused, cheeks flushing from literally no pause for breath. "And because you're an Omega."

The stranger looked as if he wanted to say more, but simply worried his lower lip between his teeth.

John sputtered, rearing back. This perfect stranger could tell all that by looking? _And_ he could see John was an Omega? He thought no one knew - not that John particularly hid the fact, but no one noticed. Caught between being impressed and frightened, he chose to be impressed.

"That was- well that was brilliant." Sherlock, whose face had been tense and guarded, relaxed.

"Really?" He straightened.

John nodded slowly, still not sure how to take all this. "Yes—fantastic." The air seemed to prickle with electricity and John looked down, biting his lip. The silence between them was so intense he fought to break it.

"Well, that's not what people usually say, but thank you." The sentence sounded awkward and John bit back a laugh. Sherlock coughed and turned back towards the windows. "I'm here to investigate a murder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't guess, I've changed a lot of the Sherlock canon, as it shall go with such a prompt. If I wasn't - or am not in the future - clear, feel free to tell me.


	2. Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We introduce Sherlock.
> 
> Cue romance *snaps*

John was taken aback. Investigate that murder? "I— uh, thought that they confirmed it would have come from the next town over. I can't imagine why that would bring you here, and to the Church of all places."

"So it seems—to the normal eye. I, however, am not so simple." He moved back towards John, predatory once again. Sherlock smirked and stepped around John, gaze sweeping across the pews and darkened walls."Father, you were an army doctor, or at least had extensive medical experience. You were sniffing around with that mousy girl I was told, and you seemed to know a thing or two."

John nodded stiffly, not too keen to remember the harsh days of the war, the never ending gunshots and wounds to repair. Blood everywhere. Always blood. And the stench. The primal Alphas and the docile Betas, always looking at him, judging him, waiting for him to slip up or go into heat. For Christ's sake, as if he was some kind of uncontrollable slut. One of the reasons he became a priest.A shuddering breath came from John before he could help it. 

Sherlock looked curious. 

"If you've heard all that, then you must know that it has nothing to do with me." John turned around and began walking towards the alter. He had work to do. He didn't have time for this arrogant, pompous Alpha to interrogate him when the man was clearly capable—

A solid, leather-clad hand landed on John’s shoulder. He froze. John forced himself to resist throwing the stranger to the ground and instead turned slowly to meet his intense gaze.

"I'm curious, Father. Why is it someone who is caught in a schism with his own sexual repression and the will of 'God' makes his way into the church."

John paled. How did he—? John wasn't exactly sure what the Alpha wanted to accomplish with that comment. Maybe he meant to help John with the deep inner turmoil (that he did not have), or maybe he was just being a condescending dick. 

The priest was seconds away from punching him in the face; Sherlock knew it, if John's harsh breathing was any indication; the priest had begun to clench his fist _very_ hard. Sherlock looked disturbingly smug and unconcerned, obviously noticing the motion, and made haste to move away.

"I'll be back.” The Alpha stated. “We'll talk about those confessions—certainly any dirt on these people may pertain to the case at hand." 

John shook his head, nearly numb from the pace of things. This detective wanted him to _what_? He was insane if he believed he could march in here like a typical Alpha and receive whatever he wanted.

"Hold on. You - I don't even know your name, for one, and two no. Those confessions are private. It would be completely wrong of me to betray their trust and reveal any of it." 

Sherlock looked back at him with an irritated scowl, but said nothing for a few moments.

"Fine. I need to talk to the people of your...town, then." His coat billowed as he turned and John's initial anger dissipated.

 _Oh, no no no_. John thought, He was not talking these nice people into emotional ruin. Not on his watch.

"Do you really think any of these people here murdered someone?” John retorted. “I've known them for years. They're good people. Wouldn't even dream of murder!" 

Sherlock looked bored with the conversation already, waving John away with his hand.

"I will soon find out. Everyone here must have his or her dark secret." The man’s smirk was positively devilish. John hurried in front of him, holding one hand out, palm forward.

No. "No, you'll traumatize them with your... your godawful complexion and your rubbish hair." John could see that this irritating man was the complete opposite of delicate. There was no guarantee any of the townspeople would actually listen to what the Alpha said before hitting him cleanly on the nose.

“My hair isn’t rubbish.” He clearly sounded offended, but Sherlock's lips quirked up, in puzzlement—yet interest.

"You don't really believe you can stop me, do you? I am conducting an investigation, and to interrupt could be punishable by law." 

The man said it as if he cared not for ‘law’ but either way... John bit his lower lip. Damn it, he had a point. John took a few moments to consider, in which the Alpha made to move around him. John scurried for an answer.

"All right, but, uhm. Oh! I'll - I will take you. Show you around town. Maybe I can keep from being a complete ars—" House of God, hello. He tried to think of something with which to replace the word, but just let it die and resolutely looked at his robe. 

"Are you going to change your attire?” Sherlock smirked. “Or do you not feel 'holy' enough without your black robes?" 

Oh, this man was asking for it. Barely an hour and John wanted to punch the arrogant, attractive, devil-in-handsome-clothing right in the gut.

"Give me five minutes," John grumbled, stalking towards the back of the church. Then, he spun back around when a thought occurred to him. "I don't even know your name and I’m going to take you to my parishioners homes. Isn't that a bit odd?" Lips pressed thin, he waited as Sherlock slowly crossed his arms, looking utterly confident as light reflected off of his beautiful face.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. The only one in the world," he replied smugly, and John gave a swift, short nod and left.


	3. Investigating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a stressful few visits they separate, until things start heating up.

"Mrs. Tanner, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's investigating that body they found and wanted to ask everyone a few questions. Ah, get their statements and what have you." John was very comfortable with the people of this small town, but with one Sherlock Holmes standing over his shoulder and looking positively dark and terrifying, it was hard to relax completely.

Mrs. Tanner hardly batted an eyelash though, opting for a calm and polite smile at Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome.

Okay, John really needed to stop thinking like that.

"That's quite all right, Father. Come in, come in. Awful stuff, this murder and all."

The scene was surprisingly swift, John would reflect later. They walked inside, Sherlock a mass of bubbling energy. He took one long look around the house and then at the toys on the ground, and turned right around.

"She didn't do it."

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Tanner was about as shocked as John, who gaped at his leaving figure.

"Wait!” John shouted. “Hold on a second. How would you - how did you know?"

He didn't understand this man. At all. He was relieved nonetheless, but his methods were unconventional, to say the least about him. Sherlock paused by the door, exasperation clear on his face.

"The walls, the toys, and her career."

"Her career?" How did he know what it was?

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured to the room impatiently, as if to say, isn't it _obvious_? "She could have never killed someone; not at the expense of her children, whom she must look after at all hours. I could go deeper into her work but it's irrelevant. Who's next?" He flashed a brilliantly arrogant smile and John shook his head.

"Sorry about the trouble." He shrugged and leaned in close to Mrs. Tanner. "Alpha, you know," he whispered. She giggled.

"You be careful, now." Sherlock looked fairly put off and John tried to keep the flush from his cheeks. She didn't mean... No, certainly not.

 

* * *

 

"No one this dull could possibly even assist a murdering madman."

John didn't really think anyone could be _that_ dull. The owner of their general store was a lovely man! Anderson was his name.

"Another Anderson.” Sherlock snarled. “Probably more dull and idiotic than you are."

When Sherlock heard this his nostrils flared and he took a step back, a smug, simmering sort of anger lighting up his features before he forced himself to calm. Jesus Christ. He didn't want to know what other Anderson received the wrath of Sherlock Holmes.Once they'd left at Anderson's request, John resisted smacking him.

"Stop that! You're being incredibly rude to everyone here." John admonished soundly.

"Hardly my problem. I'm here to investigate; not make _friends_ ," the Alpha sneered.

John was reminded exactly why he disliked these arrogant bloody tossers. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping his blood pressure didn't rise. This was becoming far too stressful for a simple investigation.

 

* * *

 

"Trite."

 

* * *

 

"Do you cheat on your husband frequently?"

 

* * *

 

With each home they visited, Sherlock insulted or horrified them with what he said - after he had discerned their involvement with the case. It wasn't as if the Alpha was a complete bastard, he simply didn't seem to care for subtlety or compassion. The detective was civil to a few, but mostly he just prattled on about their darkest secrets, even if it had nothing to do with the task at hand.

 _God save me_ , John thought, hobbling beside this figure.

His leg ached and his shoulder was bothering him more than usual. Everything was getting a little fuzzy around the edges. Maybe he should have stopped Sherlock then, when John was sure his blood pressure couldn't rise anymore, but he stupidly let the Alpha continue.

The last house before the detective was to leave was Mr. Smith's, the lumberman. Sherlock walked inside haughtily, the large male glaring at this strange pale fellow with dislike. Although a bit obtuse and often times unsociable, he was an incredibly nice man. His parishioner offered to babysit children when people were busy or John didn't have time, and Jacob had become sort of a protective symbol for the town.

Sherlock strode through his home without comment so far, but John was already sweating. _Don't say something stupid..._

Sherlock glanced at the fireplace and turned to them both curiously. "Your lover, does he come by often? How many days of the week, in an estimate?"

They all froze.

 _Oh, God._ John sucked in the stale air, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

* * *

 

"You're awful," John told Sherlock once they'd been kicked out (Sherlock, and John followed).

"I can't help that your people are incredibly boring. This place could use some gossip." He smirked at John and the Omega looked away, still wary of the Alpha. Sherlock was right awful with people, but he kept John interested, which was more than he could say since, well long ago.

"Someone's going to punch you eventually. Might be me," John grinned.

An amused snort came from the detective.

"Oh, Father. It's highly unlikely anyone would even think of harming me; not with you around, their priest, and primarily for the sake of the investigation. Fear of suspicion and violence, etcetera."

"Didn't stop him from kicking your arse out to the curb." John smugly preened.

"It was unnecessary to stay any longer. I gathered everything I needed here."

Sherlock poked the side of his head, flashing an arrogant sort of grin Alphas were known for.

That was an amazing skill, whatever he did, but it certainly didn't help his ego. John shook his head, he was not supposed to like this man. This Alpha at all - especially with the going ons - but he couldn't quite help the grin in response to Sherlock's quips.

The breeze blew past the two of them, herding in Sherlock's heavy scent to waft under John's nose. The priest wrinkled it, rubbing above his upper lip to kill the itching sensation. The Alpha’s scent seemed awfully strong as of late and John mused taking another pill. John wasn't supposed to be attracted to Alpha pheromones, but with Sherlock's gaze, John was reduced to minute shivers. How powerful _was_ this man?

John cleared his throat and raised his shoulders unconsciously as he looked at Sherlock. "Are we done here? I'd like to get back to the church if you don't mind." And get away from you.

Sherlock pursed his lips, looking fairly put off, but he nodded in acquiescence.

"We're almost done. A few more T's to cross, I's to dot; I nearly have it solved already. Give me another ten minutes. Lestrade will no doubt come down soon at my request."

Confident. Did he really have it solved, or was he trying to impress John? Considering their dynamics, it wasn't impossible. John wanted to ask who Lestrade was, but the chance to slip away from the overpowering scent was so much easier.

"Well, I'll be off. See you sometime?" The question hung doubtfully. They might never speak again for all he knew. He felt a bit disappointed by this, and the fact that he did irritated John.

"Another time, Father." A final brief twitch of the lips and they separated.

 

* * *

 

John raked his fingers through his short, thick hairs. The ones on his neck stood on end. Sherlock was just—God, how did one describe that man? He was infuriating—and a bit amusing—but practical. One couldn't be completely pissed off because what he had to say was always so- so downright brilliant. The detective could look at someone and see everything. Especially the things no one wanted anyone to see. John closed his eyes, thinking of the war, and then Sherlock's face. The man was far too attractive. It was probably the only reason he still had that pretty face intact.

John paced, trying to calm down. He felt tense; tight and constricted in the confines of his own clothing. He was back in the church though, relieved to be away from the Alpha, but John could still smell him. And it wasn't as if he didn't smell good; no, the scent was wonderful, that was the problem. John caught himself sniffing the air to catch the remnants of the alluring whiff. Each time he had to stop himself.

What was wrong with him? He'd—well, he had taken his medication already, so that could hardly be it.

Maybe the confident Alpha sprayed extra pheromones purchased onto his own body? It wouldn't surprise John at all, really. As long as Sherlock didn't come near him again with his overpowering Alpha scent, then it would all be fine. The priest busied himself with dusting and tidying of the church, all the while praying at intervals, keeping his mind busy spinning around the murder and Sherlock's comments.

_'He didn't do it. '_

_'She didn't do it. '_

_'Interesting.'_  
  
Did Sherlock really believe any one of them might have murdered that person? It was a town over! All of the people here were wonderful and kind, but...what if one of them did murder someone? What if John was aiding the murderer by blowing off the Alpha. Maybe he should have helped the Alpha further, suggested a few points. No, no, Sherlock was brilliant. He wouldn't need John. Why was he even considering it? Sherlock was perfectly capable!

God—he didn't know what to think. The stress was really getting to him.

 

* * *

 

 

A few hours later, and John was heating up. Cheeks flushing and fingers unconsciously pulling at his collar. John dearly prayed no one came in. He didn't believe he could deal with the confessions of his parishioners, as much as it killed him to admit. John needed to rid himself of this God-awful clothing. It was never usually this hot. He couldn't quite remember the last time he was like this. Years ago when—

John froze, fingers pausing mid-curl over the neckline of his robe.

Ha. No. No. He'd taken his meds. The same kind for years. There was just no way it could happen.  
Despite himself, John found he was scrambling for his pills, taking out the pack almost reverently. The date was correct, the information was all there. There was just - just no way he could possibly be going into heat! There; he'd said it.

Breathing a doubtful breath of air, John relaxed and stripped himself of his robe. No one was probably going to come by; not with Sherlock about. He could worry later.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock could sense it as soon as he'd come within ten feet of the church. Although very, very faint, the Alpha could smell the Omega from a mile away. The scent and the deliriously wonderful taste that was in the air told him all he needed to know. It was slight, like a smallest hint of chocolate, but Sherlock's senses were heightened. He was a proud Alpha, after all.

Heat. John was supposed to go into heat.

Sherlock cursed himself for getting mixed up with an Omega, but when he'd first noticed it was so early, Sherlock was surprised he could tell at all. The Alpha simply tailed alongside John, happy to stay out of his way and—easily—ignore the clenching of his insides with each gust of wind sent his way.

The only problem with the situation currently was that he needed to see John again. Sherlock didn't want to get caught up with the heat, but he needed to know more about this lumberjack/man fellow. He'd collected all of the data except that none of the townspeople could say ill of this Jacob Smith. Of course. Mr. Smith had cleaned himself up nice, Sherlock would bet on it. It was almost easy the way he gave himself away.

Boyfriend. Confessions. Unexpected visit [doctor; confirmed], case closed. The only missing piece was the confessions. Sherlock needed to know if Mr. Smith confessed an affair to John, or possibly an alleged disassociation from a previous career.

Damn it.

Sherlock's steps were swift as he approached the church, the scent of Omega-pheromones lying thick in the air. The Alpha took an unconscious inhale, cursing himself soon after. He should leave.

He _would_ leave.

He did not need John; he could work on his own.

Lestrade would help, no doubt.

But Sherlock wanted this case done soon—curse it all!

He would leave.

Sherlock found his steps quickening on his way to the church's entrance.


	4. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They bond, though John isn't so sure that's what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have chosen to tag non consensual because the consent here is very, _very_ dubious. I would say non-con, but it _is_ consensual. I hope you enjoy.

The heat was in its early stages. John could only feel the tightening of his body, the stiffening of his muscles. His hand rested over the back of his neck, massaging.  
  
"Damn."  
  
Everything felt so...heavy and thick, as if there was something to anticipate.  
  
The air was full of it. His fingers drummed against the wood as John sat at his desk. He shifted constantly, feeling sticky and kind of sweaty, but not where he was willing to venture acknowledging.  
  
Dear Lord, let it not be true.  
  
The Omega could smell it. John could smell Sherlock from a mile away. Hell, he could practically feel the Alpha’s scent race over his skin. Gooseflesh rose. So did John. He was out the door and in the middle of the church before the Omega could stop himself, breath coming out quick. John’s pulse raced, his body thrummed, all for the Alpha close by.  


 

* * *

  
  
Sherlock burst through the door, fingers twitching. God, the smell. It was _everywhere_. Beckoning him. Teasing him. It poked and prodded his nose, just a whiff, a touch. Sherlock could resist, he should resist. _Fuck_ , John smelled good.  
  
But it was the early hours of the heat. It would get worse soon; to the point Sherlock could not control himself. How soon? The Alpha could not tell.  
  
"Father." Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. "I—" everything he had meant to ask was gone.  
  
The Alpha’s mind was utterly, irrationally blank. Sherlock was here for a reason. Something—something important. He took a deep breath, eyes going wide as the Omega’s scent hit him. John’s heat.  
  
"You need to... leave, Father. I don't recommend being around me in your state."  
  
Sherlock didn't mention he had been the one to approach, barely even gave it thought.  
  
"What? What are you talking about?" John looked taken aback; surprised. The air was slowly becoming saturated with his scent. The Omega still looked perplexed.  
  
Sherlock licked his lips, as if he might taste it. "Your heat, obviously!" How could John be unaware?  
  
Sherlock flit a frustrated hand through his curls, nearly snarling. The Alpha moved quickly, finding it almost deceptively easy how close he came to him. John looked divine; perfect for ravishing. The priest’s eyes dilated and his hands rose up. Hesitant to stop John [a primal part of his mind purred at this] Sherlock took one of his arms and yanked him close, aligning their bodies on instinct as he pressed a hand against his arse.  
  
A sharp yelp was followed by a breathless shudder.  
  
Sherlock hummed, mind clouding further [purpose utterly lost]. This was perfect. John was completely, marvelously ready. Perhaps at this point Sherlock could easily fit three fingers in there. Four? John must be _dripping_.  
  
Sherlock meant to remove his hand immediately, he really did. The Alpha’s fingers spread though, and the feeling left him shuddering against the Omega, already stiff and wanting. John's arse fit into his palms like a glove. Sherlock leaned down and pressed his nose gently under the Omega's ear, sniffing at the soft skin. Oh, yes. His other hand slipped down his arm, pulling him as close as possible.  
  
John was frozen, soft sounds of panic escaping him. His training had taught John how to deal with this. John knew what to do, yet he was frozen. Correction: John had melted.  
  
"Mr. Holmes— Sherlo—" Sherlock was—he smelled— a strangled, confused sound escaped the Omega again.  
  
"Don't you feel it?" Sherlock sounded desperate. John's eyes fluttered closed, his cock, already swollen, throbbing at the sonorous tone right against his ear. "You're _soaked_. You're wet for me. You're so wet, so ready for an Alpha."  
  
Sherlock’s voice curled, low and dark as his finger searched for the cleft of his arse. He pressed down and felt liquid seep under his fingers. God, the _smell_ of him. It was sweet, almost undefinable [perhaps if his brain was less clouded he could deduce the scent]. He needed to taste John.  
  
Sherlock’s tongue dragged against his jawline, moving towards his throat. John's left hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers tight. Jesus _Christ_. He moaned softly.  
  
"Jesus, _Je_ sus. That's..." John shivered, one hand wrapping itself around the Alpha's waist, before he pulled back (closer, closer, his mind screamed).  
  
Sherlock hummed low in his throat, pleased and unworried. Still caught in his identity crisis, then. He could easily administer aid. Sherlock exposed John's neck and nosed his way down, licking and nipping at his pulse. John was shaking as he pressed his nose to the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply. Arousal spiked, as did the Alpha's grip. He had to take him. Such a fresh, willing, unbound Omega. So rare and so lovely a specimen. He _must_ take him. John was _his_.  
  
John's breathing spiked; he unconsciously leaned into the touch. The slow burn inside of him expanded and exploded, making his skin tingle and his body light with a hot arc of fire. He whined low in his throat, and gripped Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock was—  
  
The thought of the man's cock made John moan with agony. "Sherlock, get- get off." Somehow he found his voice as he attempted to push the man off of him. Sherlock tightened his grip and growled into his flushed skin.  
  
Any Alpha for miles would smell him! Why was he being so illogical at a crucial time? Sherlock needed to protect and breed him—soon, lest any Alpha come by to take him.  
  
"Stop _resisting_ ," Sherlock snapped. "This is your nature; it's instinct."  
  
John jumped, driven further back.  
  
No. No! His temper was getting the better of him. Sherlock tried lowering his voice, speaking softly under his ear.  
  
"You're _aching_ for it. You want my cock to fill you where it burns. Doesn't it hurt, being so empty? Let me take care of you. Let me..." He trailed off, grinding them together to let John feel it. John went boneless, cheeks turning a violent shade of red.  
  
This was wrong on so many levels. He may be an Omega, but he was in the house of God. This was a mistake. John wasn't a _toy_.  
  
"It's... I can't. Stop," John gasped weakly as Sherlock's hand spread on his arse, kneading the flesh under his clothing. John's hips pressed back against his hand without his conscious consent. Shit. Fuck. Shit.  
  
Sherlock felt amazing. His hand was a reassuring presence by his aching, aching hole. He was so empty, so wet. There's was an incessant itch, deep, deep inside. There was no way to reach and John knew Sherlock's long, thick cock could cure it. He could make it better, fuck, he could make it so, so much better. It was harder and harder to come up with reasons to resist.  
  
"Your moralistic thoughts on the matter are irrelevant.” Sherlock purred. “You need me. I need to fuck you."  
  
Sherlock was licking him now, tongue laving his neck in small, agitated strokes. John hissed and shivered, the heat inside him rising up, burning, consuming him, clouding his mind until he choked on it and all that was left was Sherlock, the Alpha. Sherlock slowly pressed his hand to John's stomach, attempting to move him. Where? He didn't have a bed and they wouldn't be leaving this church any time soon. At least not until after the first heat.  
  
John inhaled when a hand pressed to the small of his back, a calming presence whilst managing to be scorching hot. This was really happening.  
  
With a sudden rush of strength and fortitude (or insanity) John pushed Sherlock off of him and practically ran for the altar, clinging to its wooden surface. Sherlock looked so desperate, eyes wide and curls wild, framing his flushed face. He was gorgeous.  
  
"Stay away!" John barked, but the pained looked on his face begged otherwise. He needed Sherlock. He needed to be fucked. Mercilessly. For days, preferably. The empty, dark hole inside of him only grew more and more uncomfortable. John shifted, face coloring as he felt hot liquid run down the inside of his thigh. He was dripping now, dear God.  
  
Sherlock. Sherlock, he needed Sherlock. He needed his thick knot to fill him with - with everything. A means to quell the deep itch residing inside of him. He'd give anything to have it, God anything.

  
But he couldn't. It was - it went against everything in which he believed.  
  
Sherlock approached, his coat thrown to the side and his fingers rapidly unbuttoning his shirt. John could only gape, breath coming out ragged in his own ears. "Sherlock," he breathed when he was nearly a foot away. John's hands scrambled along the altar, as if he might be able to find something—anything to defend himself. But it was useless, and John had just about given up on resisting; it didn't seem like a good idea anymore. Then Sherlock's hands cupped his face, pulled him close; Sherlock breathed him in and let their lips hover, millimeters apart.  
  
"John." He caved.

They were kissing. Sherlock twisted John around the altar and shoved him into the wooden surface, opening his mouth with ease. John moaned heatedly. Sherlock cupped his cheek, the kiss almost tame. Then he groaned and licked his way into John's mouth, making it deeper, wetter, dirtier. Sherlock nipped and and bit, sucking on his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth.  
  
Sound escaped John's lips, loud and shameless, shuddering against dexterous hands. Sherlock pulled him close, ran his thumb under John's jaw, tracing patterns across his neck. John's hands were in Sherlock's hair before he could help himself, grinding up into the taller man’s thigh.  
  
Everything ached. Everything burned. John’s body shook with arousal and want, breath ghosting shallowly over Sherlock's supple lips.  
  
"I've never—" he began, but Sherlock was quickly speaking again, pulling the robe over John’s head.  
  
"You hardly need practice. This is even better. You've never been taken; you're mine. I'll fill you, deeply. You're fertile; enormously so. You haven't had your heat in so long. I can _smell_  it."  
  
It was such an Alpha thing to say, such arrogant, idiotic dialogue like that that should have—and usually did—made him angry, but it worked. It always fucking worked. He couldn't help but writhe against the man desperately, voice rising as he clung to him. Fuck, he needed to be fucked. To be filled. The idea of carrying another's children repulsed his conscious mind, but right now that was so fucking hot.  
  
Sherlock reached to free John of his trousers, making it difficult for John to pull Sherlock’s last few buttons out of their holes. Bugger. Giving up on the notion that the shirt would be any less than torn, the buttons flew as John forced it off of him. And then they were writhing together, Sherlock's lips attacking his neck, his chest, whilst their hips undulated.  
  
It was good. Really good.  
  
Sherlock tried to divest John of his trousers a second time, getting distracted when John ground his erection into Sherlock’s thigh. He released John’s trousers, which fell to his ankles, and couldn't help himself when he claimed John's mouth, bringing an arm around to grab at his arse, forcing them into a harsh rhythm.  
  
"Oh- that’s. I want you. I need you to do something, Sherlock. I need you- inside." John's flushed cheeks grew darker, but he couldn't stop himself from saying it. He needed Sherlock more than anything, it hurt to be so empty. An agonized sound rolled against Sherlock's mouth, which had descended on his own.  
  
"Yes. Spread your legs. Wide. Turn around." Sherlock nearly snapped, thoughts uncollected and wrecked, surging around his mind useless. He tried to grasp at them coherently, but John's glassy gaze kept distracting him. He spun John around and pulled down his trousers and pants in a single motion, exposing his dripping hole. John had just opened his mouth when Sherlock's face was against his arse, inhaling the arousing scent, licking at the edges of his cleft.  
  
"Oh my— _Jesus_." John hissed, legs going weak.  
  
He'd collapse without Sherlock's warm, steady hands on his hips. That shouldn't have sent his body on fire, forcing him to push back, knuckles white against the altar as he shouted.  
  
"Oh my god, _God_ , Sherlock." Desperate, wanton moans rolled off of his tongue, sparks running down his spine. His cock throbbed weakly, already leaking fluids down its side.  
  
Sherlock winced in sympathy—he must be aching. He was not, however, sympathetic enough to stop what he was doing. Sherlock continued for a few moments more, inhaling to his greatest capacity.  
  
"The smell of you," he marveled, happy to lick his way inside the army doctor—for hours, if his own need wasn't so insistent. His will power broke; with a frustrated growl, caught between biology and the glistening orifice that tasted so divine, he shot up and positioned himself, prick in hand.  
  
Wild fear climbed up John's conscious. <i>Wrongwrongwrong </i>his mind screamed. Pushing off of the altar, he briefly considered trying to stop this, but then his wrists were encircled by large, warm hands—God—and held back against the edges, his legs forced further apart by Sherlock's knees. One hand was let go, and Sherlock used it to position himself. He pressed against John's arse, teasing him. Any thoughts the Omega harbored of resistance fled. He was hot, so hot. So thick. And so unbearably close, yet Sherlock wasn't moving.  
  
Why the hell was he waiting?  
  
"Sherlock!" John snapped in desperation, not about to impale himself (a part of him wouldn't let it happen). Sherlock smirked above him, and then pushed in. John choked on his pleasure when Sherlock mounted him, cock slipping deep, deep inside. The itch, the throbbing pain was soothed somewhat. Oh, god he was _full_.  
  
"Oh god. _Ohh_ fuck. Oh my god," he sobbed, thighs quivering. When Sherlock finally moved and that intense heat slid and spread, John thrashed, breaking from Sherlock's grip to hold onto the altar. "Oh, God." His body screamed for him to go harder, deeper, further. Again and again and again. "Do it. Do it," he urged, breathlessly not quite sure Sherlock would even understand his wishes. John was hardly coherent. He only knew he needed it, or the flames inside of him would never go out, only growing hotter and more intense.  
  
Sherlock bit John's neck, the nearest scent-ridden part of John, and the ex-army doctor surged upward, burying Sherlock deeper inside. They moved with rapid fluidity, the harsh slap of flesh upon flesh barely louder than their own breath. Sherlock's lips trailed to his jaw, his neck; he licked and sucked at John's pulse, hands roaming over his naked body, dipping into every curve, memorizing him. John moaned pathetically, erection trying to twitch towards Sherlock's hands, droplets steadily slipping down its underside.  
  
"Please, harder." Harder, faster, deeper.  
  
Sherlock complied, changing the angle, rolling smoothly into him, lips peppering hot kisses down his neck, pausing only to suck and nip at the most sensitive areas. John went wild, voice cracking as he brushed harshly against his prostate. John moaned and grasped for some sort of purchase, hands clinging white to the surface in front of him.  
  
Sherlock chuckled breathlessly. "Tell me you want it," he said into John's ear, biting the lobe gently.  
  
"I want it." He grit his teeth, and the words poured from him faster than he could help. "I want your cock and your knot to fill me. Knot me. Breed me. Come on, come on. Come in me." John grunted at the slide of Sherlock's cock. Each of his thrusts was making him closer and closer to coming. He tilted his hips, standing on his toes to get a better angle.  
  
Sherlock's knot swelled and the Alpha above him growled, giving into instinct as he gripped the Omega's hips and simply rocketed into him, orgasm approaching with an explosive intensity. On instinct Sherlock leaned and bit into his shoulder, teeth no doubt drawing blood. Pain swirled into pleasure and John keened; his body tightened like a spring, releasing in one swift movement.  
  
He was drowning in the force of it, body clamping down tight, back arching, mouth parting in a second, silent scream, a mere choked whimper. Sherlock's pleased growl answered his call, teeth once more digging into his skin, grazing it, sealing the bondbite.  
  
John didn't notice then—not until it was too late. "Fuck," John breathed in relief as waves of aftershocks rushed over him, whimpering when his cock twitched valiantly as long fingers wrapped around the length. Those same fingers gripped his hips and John was pliant under Sherlock's heavy rhythm, moaning when he felt the Alpha's hips stutter; Sherlock shivered minutely, groaning deep and dark, an incredibly satisfied sound. He came inside John, dousing the fire, wiping his mind clean. John gave a lovely moan, even as he felt the knot swelling to its full size.  
  
Uncomfortable, a bit like a tennis ball, and very intimate, Sherlock rocked and lodged the knot inside of John, who felt full but now approaching painful with the heavy length that popped past. He closed his eyes and allowed for his breath to catch, fingers aching and stiff from his tight hold on the hard, smooth wood.  
  
"That- that hit the spot," he breathed shakily. He spent a moment revelling in the feeling of being so complete, so natural that he felt he might never expected to feel this way again. Ever. Then he thought about what had just happened, and it came to him in a rush. "Oh, bugger."  
  
What had he done? He'd gone against his own God, his own morals, and for what? John's breath stuttered, catching painfully. This was a huge, huge mistake. John was so— so _ashamed_.  
  
Endorphins were keeping him up high, from falling down, but John was shaking, he realized. From anger at himself and fear at - at all of this. What was this? Just a quick fuck? Was it supposed to have meaning, considering John's position? He felt his shoulder—the bite—sting, and his breath left him in one fell swoop. His vision went awry, and he was falling.  
  
Arms embraced him. Sherlock pulled the Omega against his chest, lying his head against his shoulder. Warm, large hands slowly rubbed up and down his thighs and stomach, leaving a comforting warmth settling. "It's all right." His voice was soft and sonorous, if a bit hoarse. John shivered and buried his face into the crook Sherlock's neck. It was just the Alpha's instinct to comfort the Omega, but it still felt...good. Against his own will he felt himself relax into the hold, eyes slipping closed.  
  
For a while they just lay there, John finding a comfort in the gentling rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and the heavy scent about his neck as he tried not to panic. He sighed unconsciously into the hold, nuzzling his pale skin. A warm blanket encircled him, pushing all weary thoughts from his mind, forcing him to blankness. It was exactly what he needed right now—something stable. Something to keep him at peace for the moment. John thought he even fell asleep, for he suddenly woke when he felt the knot deflated, jarred awake. John cleared his throat and pulled off of Sherlock's chest, momentarily dizzy with regret. He wanted to stay in his arms, bask in his scent.  
  
"We, ah, we should move. Right." His voice was hoarse and hesitant, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's knees (they were on the floor now). The Alpha nodded and removed himself carefully [John shuddered attractively when his prick slipped out of his slick entrance], setting the Omega down to pick up his discarded shirt. Sherlock immediately took care to wipe John and then himself clean. Well. As much as they would be.  
  
"Do you have a home?"  
  
"Contrary to popular belief, I don't live in the church," John weakly joked, smiling. Sherlock briefly returned it. Once John had half-dressed himself, Sherlock was pulling John towards the back entrance, arm around him protectively.  
  
John jerked in his hold. "What are you doing?" he asked warily, in case he wanted another go.  
  
"Obvious. You still secrete pheromones and any Alpha within a mile radius will smell you. Until we've reached your home and I've bred you properly, I should stay close."  
  
Should he consider that sweet? They moved quickly, because the Omega could feel his arousal spike as Sherlock's scent invaded his nostrils, and he shuddered. They would have a long few days ahead of them.


	5. Decision and indecision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes a few steps back and Sherlock doesn't like it.
> 
> Trigger Warning: Mentions of abortion and angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad this story is being enjoyed. I thank everyone for supporting me!

Sherlock, true to his word, pushed John against the nearest available surface as soon as they entered his home. John didn’t protest – couldn’t possibly say no to the sweet, sweet heat that rubbed against him.

His carelessly thrown on robe and trousers were on the floor in moments, the heavy scent of his pheromones bursting into the air as fluid sluiced down his thighs. The itch, the ache was back, and Sherlock immediately placed his thick erection in between John’s cheeks, pushing into his anus with practiced accuracy.

John cried out in relief, and Sherlock fucked him in earnest, groaning into his ears _mineminemine_. John’s fingernails dig into the awful wallpaper he never cared to change, breath coming in short, broken gasps, crying _pleasepleaseohGodyes_ , then he was coming, and coming, and coming.

They explored; Sherlock experimented to see in how many places they could fuck; John simply enjoyed the mind-shattering pleasure. They were on the bed, then the sofa, then the kitchen table; time blended into nothing as they heeded to the call of their bodies.Sherlock’s knot popped in without much resistance each time, drenching the ovum that John had released, trapping every bit of semen the Alpha could offer to Omega for the purpose of their future child.

Sherlock bent low and murmured hotly in John’s ear, telling him he’d fill him with him children—so many that John would nearly burst. Round and beautiful and— _God_. The Omega shuddered and came for the hundredth time, throat constricting hoarsely.

 

* * *

 

John woke up lying on his own bed, Sherlock pressed just above him with one arm looped loosely around his waist.

“I’ve solved it.”

The Omega tilted his head up blearily, aware his Alpha was staring at him. He barely aware of his own name, let alone the murder from what seemed years ago. Sherlock’s eyes were bright.

Warm, exhausted and covered in their seed, it took John about 15.4 seconds to process what he was saying, then what he was talking about.

“Solved…what?” His throat ached from hours of his hoarse screams. Sherlock looked at him with vague disappointment. 

“The murder. The lumberjack.” He said urgently, fingers tightening on John’s hips. 

“Ah. Oh. That’s, ah, wonderful,” John replied, still blearily encased in this warmth. He wanted to cuddle closer to Sherlock, press his nose into his neck and inhale, wrap his arms around his stomach where his child, their child would— 

John froze, blood running cold. No. Oh, God, no. The heat. Sherlock. His semen, locked inside by the knot. He might be pregnant. Scratch that; it was impossible he wouldn’t be. Jesus Christ.

“...incredibly simple, once our coupling cleared my mind. It was obvious. Now, there are a few preparations to make, but certainly…John?“ Sherlock glanced down at his pale complexion with worry, heeding to the instinctual urge to protect his bonded from discomfort. “Are you all right?”

He was definitely not all right. He had mated with Sherlock. he’d committed the worst possible sin.

The pills. Why hadn’t they worked? John scrambled off of the bed, ignoring Sherlock’s calls as he yanked the drawer open that held his extra set in case he lost the others. He inspected the bottle; everything seemed perfect. John made an unsightly noise, rushing to Sherlock. He shoved the bottle in his face. 

“Why didn’t they work?” Sherlock would know. God, he hoped so.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, then in moments his expression cleared in satisfaction. 

“Recall.” 

“What?” John was breathing hard.

“Recall. Any of these made in the last few months had improper chemical mixtures, nulling them useless. It was on the news prior to this month.”

John paled impossibly further, taking a step away from Sherlock. No, no. He wasn’t supposed to get pregnant or even go into heat! Fuck. He should have paid more attention to the news. Damn it.

What should he do? What _could_ he do? Sherlock had mated with him and they might have a child. 

Shit, shit, shit.

John needed space. 

But the Alpha was still talking. His eyes glittered with pleasure and his cheeks were flushed; he looked quite proud, probably from both mating and solving the case. He looked disheveled and completely happy in his own skin. It was stunning. John's chest constricted; the bond made him want to curl into the man's arms and kiss him over and over, memorize the shape of his lips, let his hands wander without purpose— “Sherlock," he interrupted in his panic, gaining his attention again. 

"What? Don't tell me you're having a _crisis_ after—"

"I— I'm not. Look, Sherlock." He couldn't handle it. He couldn't look at him. "Can you – can you just leave? For a bit.” _Forever_. "Please." Every part of his physical being screamed for him to run into Sherlock’s arms and bury himself there, inhale his musky scent, but his mind persisted. He felt like he was shaking, but his hands were completely steady.

Sherlock looked uncertain, much less arrogant and proudly satisfied as before. Was John serious? Was he really pushing Sherlock away, in such a crucial stage to their bond?

“John?” Hesitant. John bit his lip.

“Please? I. Just – just go. I need – this was a mistake. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

No, no, God. He couldn’t be _pregnant_. This was all sorts of fucked up. This had all gone horribly wrong. 

Sherlock’s throat convulsed, sound coming out and he sat up. “John, you aren’t – you can’t be serious. I’ve just bred you. We’ve bonded and it's crucial—“

“I know.” John’s voice was tight, pained. Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped. His gaze was hardening despite the pain John could see gathering there. 

“John. Please. I don’t – it would not be wise to leave.”

John growled, pressing a palm over his face. “This wasn’t _wise_ in the first place. Look, I know you didn’t want this, and you don’t want me – or children. It’s the bond talking.” Every word, every breath past his lips hurt. Fuck, he didn’t want to say this, but he needed to.

Sherlock looked hurt, morphing into anger. He was threatened, his bond was threatened. But it was John, and he was torn; what should he do? “John!” he barked. “You are my bonded Omega. It is built into our systems and absolutely ridiculous to resist the call of nature. Certainly you can understand—“

“I understand that you’ve put an— “ he choked, tears threatening as his arms wrapped around himself protectively, as if it might still his moving lips “— _abomination_ inside me. I can’t—I’m a _priest_ , Sherlock.”

When he looked over, Sherlock’s face was torn with agony and terror. He wasn’t seriously considering getting rid of their child, was he?

John was. He was a priest, strictly against the idea of abortion, yet when he glanced down at himself all he felt was shame. What if the people who had once ridiculed him could see him now? He could imagine the disgusted expressions, the revolting twist of their lips. He could see the shame and the laughter bouncing off the walls of his mind.

What would the people of his town think? They would banish him; ridicule him as people had done back in the army, once more.

Sherlock would be there. Yes, Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn't contain the world. The panic that bubbled inside John was growing, fizzling, threatening to burst forth, spill past his lips and consume him. 

“John. Don’t do this. It’s rash. Please, John. Please. At least let me – keep the child until it is born. John, please—“ Sherlock’s breath was ragged, tears trailing down his cheeks, harsh fear surging through his system. God. Sherlock - Alphas - didn't cry. They didn't - they didn't look like _that_.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't deal with the idea of people holding something he couldn't control against him _again_. The army had been enough. He'd had enough.

“Sherlock. This is the last time. Please... get out. Go solve your case or…whatever.” John sounded resigned, exhausted, pained – more so than before. He shook and couldn’t remove his fingers from gripping his abdomen. A whimper escaped.

“John,” Sherlock choked. “Please.” 

Sherlock barely knew him. He shouldn't sound so broken. The bond shouldn't have made him care so much. Sherlock would be terrible with children!

John shook his head and moved. 

“I’ll be in the shower.” He couldn't deal with this, didn't want to.Leaving his near-keening Alpha, John moved to the bathroom. As he stripped he could feel it; the bond, new and strong, yet fragile, was bending and twisting. With each passing second it became more and more painful, until John doubled over, sobs ripping through him. Sherlock leaving hurt. Oh God, it _hurt_.

As soon as he felt the rip of his heart, John knew Sherlock was gone. Tears slipped lazily down his cheek. Once it had begun, he couldn't stop.

 

* * *

 

In a daze the priest moved through his home, picking up his discarded clothing, cleaning off the disgusting (beautiful, wonderful) remnants of their congress. 

John took another shower then; he washed his hair, his body, shaking when his hands traveled past his stomach. Their baby. The embryo, barely even a thing. Just a fertilized ovum, most likely. Despite the fact that he knew, John bought three different tests. He somehow hoped that they might hold different results than what was obvious. He threw them all away the next morning, cheeks burning and eyes watering.

When he arrived back at church, the fellow citizens told John two men had arrested poor Mr. Smith nearly hours ago. John nodded, filed the information away, and moved on with his life. John took a pill for the sake of normalcy the first day Sherlock left, just in case it...well, he didn’t know. After he took it, he worried that it might hurt the baby (not even there. He was being ridiculous). Fear surged up and he found himself hyperventilating until he had forced himself into a state of calm.

He delivered sermons barely knowing what he’d said. It wasn't particularly hard. The attentive eyes only needed to hear the same spiel in order to be satisfied. Words formed on his lips; John felt like he was in someone else' body. The world was tilted on its axis, an array of different shades of grey.

For three more weeks he didn’t let himself think about Sherlock or their torn bond. He didn’t think about the flimsy connection they shared that throbbed when John thought of him. He refused to acknowledge Sherlock’s scent, somehow still hanging in his home, or how he found himself sniffing the air, hands pressed firmly to his stomach.

He thought about his decisions for another week. John’s scent would be changing, and any Alpha nearby would be able to smell it. Even later, everyone would be able to tell. He had to get rid of the child. There was no other way (his mind protested. The doctor, the religious part of him, the _Omega_ protested). 

Three pregnancy tests later and he was certain.

 _You could keep it._ His mind screamed. A part of him also screamed, _I want to!_ But he pushed them both down. It was for God. God’s will, his grace, going to Heaven, being good.

Maybe if he kept telling himself that, it might feel true.

John scheduled a visit to the nearest hospital, barely aware of the people moving around him. Just two visits. First to set it up, the second to finish it. He’d take a few pills, bear the sickness for a few days, and then he would look back on this as a huge mistake. One big, huge, heart-breaking mistake.

The next week he spent wondering how the child might look.

 

* * *

 

Comforting white walls surrounded the Omega, the familiar scents and sounds of the hospital a good calming mechanism for John. 

If only.

The doors opened automatically, accepting John's entrance, willing compliance. With every step taken on the ugly blue carpet, it was harder to breath. John's fingers twitched, trying to reach for that familiar spot on his stomach he had indulged in too many times. Too many nights were spent gently rubbing with his thumb. John didn’t want this baby. He didn’t want a child, least of all with Sherlock. It was wrong; sinful. Ungodly. Wrong.

John kept repeating that as if he might believe it.

He sat down at one of the hard plastic chairs by the wall, preferring it to the warm, comforting ones in the waiting area near all the children. John could hear the gentle murmur of the worried parents, exasperated and reaching for their little brats. Gruff fathers snarked and gentle mothers soothed. Someone's baby cried. He refused to look at them, to think one of those could be his.

One of the nurses came out. Her scrubs were a dark navy blue and her eyes were green, he noted. He wondered if she was a beta, if she could be pregnant and not know, or if she had someone waiting at home. Cold fear surged up inside John and he began to minutely shake, biting his lip. She only passed him by though, and began to smile at a little boy who ran up to her. Her smile was warm and her cheeks were gently flushed from running around the hospital. her hand almost covered the small boy's brown head of hair; his eyes were wide and curious as he looked up at her. 

Christ. John needed to stop. 

Another one walked out, looking around before she opened her mouth to call a name. John tried to do what Sherlock did, look and _know_ ; he looked at her clothing, her wedding ring, her shoes, but the roar in his ears was too loud. John closed his eyes tightly, arms wrapping around his stomach. 

No, no, God no. Just a bit longer. Just a bit longer before it was all gone. People ignored him, sparing a few glances but too busy with their own problems. A young Omega woman, heavily pregnant looked like she wanted to stare, but then she turned and began speaking to her husband. John tried not to stare, tried to focus on anything other than the pounding of his own heart.

After an excruciatingly long amount of time, a dark-skinned male nurse came out and looked around. “John Watson?" He froze. The nurse looked his way. "Doctor McCormick is ready to see you.”

The world suddenly tightened and zoomed in, his vision blurring. He couldn't see past his hands and the hideous carpet under his feet, scruffy and not at all comfortable (how were those children rolling around on it without a rash?). He closed his eyes, trying to breathe. No, no, no. John shook, fingers clenching the fabric by his waist. He was barely aware of his heavy breathing and his own keening voice. By now the nurse had come over and was rubbing his back, trying to pry his arms from his middle.

“...No, no. I’m - I - just a bit more. I. Can’t, not yet.” He couldn't halt the stream of words that poured past his lips. It was like he was pleading with God, as if he had forced this on him. John had a brief vision of something Mike had told him long ago.

 _'God loves all of his children.'_ John clung to the nurse, fingers wrapping into his blue, blue outfit. It was like he was drowning. The nurse was trying to calm him, unheard over the waves of fear that crashed over him. People were murmuring around him, worried, annoyed, some sickly amused. He heard none of it. This child was life. Who was he to decide, to allow himself to even think of destroying the life growing inside of him?

“Sir, please, calm down. It’s going to be all right,” the nurse spoke softly, turning his head to force John into looking at him. “You don’t have to go through with it. Who’s making you? Has some Alpha threatened you? Where's your Alpha?” He looked protective, glancing at his bond-bite, perhaps the same scene he’d witnessed many times.

John blanked, feeling oddly empty in that moment.

“No I...” He seemed torn. He just - just _couldn’t._

“No one can make you.” His voice was stern. No one could make him. No one was forcing him. God would love him, no matter what. God loved all of his children; even the pregnant ones. John sagged against his body, partly in relief, partly from exhaustion.  

_He'd been thinking so hard these past weeks, dreaming, hoping, praying. He was so tired. No one was making him; it was only himself. John could decide to have the baby._

But God, he was relieved. Joy that shouldn't have been present surged through his system, making him slowly grin without realizing it. He didn’t have to. He couldn’t do it. John could not make himself get rid of the child, the small life in _his_ hands. 

“I - God. I..." So he was really going to do it. There was no going back. John glanced in the nurse's face, concerned, stern. Hopeful. "I think I’ll cancel that appointment.”

The nurse was obviously pleased. “Of course. You can always come by if someone is threatening you. You have every right to that child.” He beamed.

John nodded, exhausted with relief and glad the nurse didn’t pry. After carefully extracting himself, John spent the next few moments blushing furiously, ignoring those staring at him blatantly. Some with scorn, some with concern. The heavily pregnant Omega looked proud. John walked out of the hospital and felt a huge weight lift off of his shoulders.

When John arrived at home he slept like a rock. He dreamt of Sherlock, his Alpha. He dreamt he was in Sherlock's arms, lips pressed into his neck, cuddling him while Sherlock’s hand rested on his round belly.

John dreamt that he went to Sherlock, and the Alpha rejected him with a sneer.

He dreamt that Sherlock died because he broke their bond, and he was left in shards. Blood was everywhere. Blood choked him, filled his nose and made him gag. He woke up and ran to the toilet, pale and shaking and angry.

He dreamt they had a family.

 

* * *

 

John woke up gasping, hands on his stomach as another horrifying dream replayed itself over and over and over. Their torn bond still throbbed and shook, holding on to its very last breaths. John touched his cheek and felt dried tears. 

He was going against God, against everything he believed in for the sake of the child - and himself - and yet he still had to be reminded of the arrogant Alpha every moment of the day. He was impossible to forgot; the large, warm hands that caressed his body, the soft voice rolling deep in his ear...

John shivered. This was getting to be ridiculous. He was going to go insane! He'd known the man for barely a week and he was practically pining. John huffed, fingers curling around his comforter. Maybe he should see him. There were tales of Omega births going wrong due to the absence of the mate. It would only be for a while, anyway. Perfectly logical; Sherlock might have been proud. He needed to see Sherlock, that was all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the recall might refer to the over the counter type drugs, which London does not have if I am correct. So, ignore that if that's wrong?


	6. Can You See Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to see Sherlock. They're not okay, but they'll be all right.

John had taken a few day’s grace from his priesthood, telling the town he had a few things to take care of - family matters (not a _complete_ lie). He discreetly investigated where Sherlock was from, asking if anyone had known where the strange Alpha lived -- out of curiosity. One of the women mentioned something about central London and that the other detective was from the Scotland Yard.

That was a start. Besides, John was going to have to...give up his priesthood; already breaking the rule of celibacy, there was no turning back. The thought had him wincing in fear. He liked his life. He’d hidden himself, worked in the army despite being an Omega, dealt with the scorn and the doubt, then when he’d had enough, he left the army, lost and alone. He'd hated himself. He’d sometimes been driven to wanting impale himself — with a knife, a stick — just to get rid of the part he abhorred.

Then he met a kind priest named Mike Stamford, who showed him the way to salvation and dealing with the Omega inside. Ever since he’d been devoted.

Now?

He was going to take his whole life and twist it around for a child that was nearly forced on him, and yet he couldn’t make himself feel regret. That itself irritated John. Who was Sherlock to say he should keep the child? He should get rid of it! Then his instincts would scream and he couldn’t bear the thought of it. No; he wanted this child, whether he could admit it or not, whether it was instinct or not.

Of course he would miss priesthood. He would miss being close to God, feeling like he was doing his part in the world. He would miss it all.

But he also missed Sherlock.

Obviously, he was insane.

It was his instinct, the bond, overriding his original intentions for his life. Sooner or later he was going to need to deal with this — really deal with it, but right now. Now, he just needed to find his Alpha.

Swallowing thickly, John forced himself to push those thoughts aside and opened Google. There wasn't much on Sherlock Holmes, not really. A few articles mentioning his name and some policemen, especially that Lestrade. John scanned the bright pages until he came to The Science of Deduction. 

It rang a bell and as he looked at it, he aha!'d. It was that thing Sherlock did. The amazing observation. John scanned his posts and chuckled to himself, wondering if this was really what he got up to. It sounded so exciting in theory, yet Sherlock managed to make it so incredibly dull. John couldn't bear reading about the ashes. When he closed down the webpage, he felt like he knew him a little bit better. Not really as himself, but as a person. He wasn't _bad_ , as far as he could tell. Just strange. Different. Robotic.

John wanted desperately to know what he was like, just a bit.

 

* * *

 

Soon he was boarding the train that would take him to London and — hopefully — Sherlock. Just the thought of seeing him brought a twinge to his gut. Rolling hills passed by. The soft scent of smoking passengers drifted into John's car. He rubbed his nose, resting a hand on his stomach. Five weeks since then, his mind supplied. Over a month. He was still completely flat, but eventually that would change. 

Somehow, John was looking forward to it. He glanced out the window, leaning his head on the thick glass even though it jostled him and pulled at his skin. The train ride was seemed ridiculously long in retrospect, but must have been a fairly short amount of time. London wasn’t that far away, but each passing second consisted of John staring at the wall and avoiding the wary and/or critical eyes of his fellow passengers. He checked his watch frequently.

He checked again.

Damn it. It really had felt like more than three minutes. Time must have slowed down. God was now conspiring against John Watson for being rebellious. To be a honest, it was a bit hard to be completely faithful at the moment. He felt strange even praying. He was so full of _doubt_.

The ex-army doctor smiled mirthlessly to himself and wondered if Mike would be surprised to see him — if he indeed did. They had first met in London when he was in uni in a ratty pub, depressed out of his mind and drinking away his sorrows glass by glass. Mike caught him on the second, started a conversation and set him straight. They became good friends over the course of the next year, meeting at pubs many times while John settled. 

Then he'd gone into the army, got shot at, come back, and again fell into a state of nothingness. Mike met him, took one good look at him and suggested the church. He might make a good one. With Mike's guidance, he found God, found himself steady, and moved out of the stifling city when he realized it was too much to collect himself.

Now that he was back, though, he couldn’t believe he left.

Stepping off the train, he immediately choked over London’s thick air. He'd been so used to the clean country air, it was hard to imagine it had always been so groggy. John rubbed his eyes clear, blinking as masses of people greeted him, their energies both gregarious and sinister, all mixing and blending. He felt a certain bubble of excitement build within him. Danger and promise, disappointment and failure all mixed together.

He smiled to no one and began walking. The Scotland Yard couldn’t be that far away.

 

* * *

 

Okay, so maybe it was harder than he thought. Was getting a cab always so difficult? It didn’t help either that Alphas kept turning up and they always got dibs, so he had to wait nearly twenty minutes before he was blissfully alone and got a cab for himself. Self-absorbed pricks. The wait was longer than the ride, which couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, yet it felt like an eternity. Why? He was getting closer to Sherlock (as far as he knew).

 _Christ_ , he was going to see Sherlock.

When John arrived in front of the building, it took him a few moments to sit there and calm himself. What if Sherlock was there? What if he unexpectedly showed himself and John was left to wonder what he could possibly say or do? What if he ran? What if he took one good look at John and shoved him out of the way? Oh God, he should have never left the house.

 _Jesus Christ, save me._ He should have stayed home and had the stupid ki—

“Oi. You okay?”

 _No._ “Yeah. Here.” After paying the driver, he stepped out, one hand planted on his abdomen.

John’s heart hammered the whole walk to the Yard; he was sweating, and was fairly certain that this stress could not be good for him. _Calm the fuck down._ You would think he was going to meet the Prime Minister or something. Nope, just Sherlock.

 _Yeah._ Just _Sherlock._

Before he could laugh at himself, someone came barreling out of the doorway; a grey-haired male who nearly ran into him.

“Jesus! Watch where you’re going.” He glanced at John, sniffed, and then moved on, holding a phone to his ear. “Sherlock, I’m coming! Hold your horses!”

John froze, blood draining as the man on the phone with his Alpha shot down the street. He was talking to Sherlock. Sherlock was on this phone. His voice. That deep, sultry roll. His voice. If John didn't move, he was going to lose this chance. If he didn't get something done, he would have come for nothing.

With as much strength as he could muster, John shot after him, grabbing his arm. “Wait, wait! You have Sherlock on the phone?” He sounded utterly panicked, even to himself.

The man stared at him in irritation and faintly John heard Sherlock’s voice from the other end.

“Nothing! Just some bloke, asking for...” He must have noticed how pale John went, because he didn’t say anything after that. Just pursed his lips and told Sherlock he’d call him back.

“What’s this, then? I have to get to Sherlock within ten minutes or he’ll have my head." He smiled bitterly, and maybe a bit fondly. "Lord knows I’ll make it.”

This was his chance. John has no idea if it was possible to hop along with a strange - at least he was an Omega - but if he did. Well. He was going to see Sherlock. Maybe. “I—Ah, how is he?” That was brilliantly put.

The man raised a brow and stared at him, noting the hand inching towards his abdomen and the nervous air he excreted. He gestured to his car. "Who are you?" John licked his lips and shifted, trying not to wince as he moved his leg, cane in his case. 

"Ah. His. Uhm. His- I know him," he ended, lamely. It was really difficult to admit. 

Was he still his mate? Would Sherlock accept him? Did he want that? 

John pressed a hand to his eye, rubbing. This was way too exhausting for this time of day. Lestrade gazed at him, taking a precautionary sniff, lips pressed together. John was feeling desperate. He glanced at his car and opened his mouth, hoping whatever might come out would convince Lestrade to take him along. He was interrupted before he could even speak. 

“Look...this isn't exactly protocol, but...want to come along? Might as well—if we’re both going.” This would perhaps be the luckiest moment in London yet. For a panicked, split second John considered saying no. It was way too early. He needed more time to think, to collect himself and wonder what he might say.

“That’d be nice, thank you.” His own voice sounded alien; frightened. The man’s hand shot out and John gripped it tightly.

“Greg Lestrade.” Lestrade. So this was that man. 

John would like to ask a few things, but could barely make himself get in the car. His heart was pounding, his eyes glued to the window. Lestrade didn't say a thing, thankfully. He merely cast a suspicious glance up and down his body and drove. With more silence, the kind that was oppressive and unwelcome, John grew more uncomfortable. He barely dared to breathe. 

When they hit a stop light, Lestrade turned to him. “So you’re his....uh, friend.” He seemed reluctant to identify him, especially considering his eyes kept darting to his stomach. John took a deep breath.

“Yeah." Easier this way. He could admit to anything later. Right now, right now— "I- he- I just came to see him.” 

Lestrade looked extremely curious, but didn’t say anything else. Just made a noncommittal noise. The ride was silent the rest of the way, still uncomfortable. John wanted to ask how Sherlock was holding up, if he was depressed or under the weather. Was he sick? Did he mention John at all? Did Sherlock miss him? The words filled his throat and hung heavily on his tongue, but he couldn't say them.

Both had questions. John just hoped Sherlock had better answers than he did.

 

* * *

 

“So, this is the place, then? 221b?”

Lestrade nodded. As they stepped out of the car, Sherlock came barreling towards them from the doorway. He looked disheveled and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles from lack of sleep. But it was _Sherlock._

“Lestrade. I _specifically_ told you ten minutes. Don't you ever listen? The body could be rotting by now! You’re la—”

He froze, eyes zeroing in on the blonde stepping out of the car. His heart _stopped_.

John.

 

* * *

 

Within seconds John was aware Sherlock had seen a thousand things at once. His eyes had raked over the man’s body, lingering near his stomach – brightening – before they continued their trail. Every inch of himself was studied and decoded.

John might have noticed more, but his foot got caught in the door, and he was immediately falling to the ground, arms surging around his middle. For a wild moment adrenaline rushed through his veins and all he could think about was _protectprotectprotect_.

Twisting and yanking himself free, he managed to fall on his back instead of his stomach. Too bad it was his left shoulder that took the blow.

Sherlock emitted a wild cry. In seconds, both Lestrade and Sherlock had rushed towards him. A growl erupted from Sherlock to fend Lestrade off as he helped John up, and John's mind finally caught up with him, albeit not completely.

The first thing he noticed was...oh God. Sherlock was touching him. After weeks and days and hours and minutes of being alone and afraid, the hands holding him up and running analytically over his body (so gentle...so _warm_ ) felt like the best welcome in the world, no matter the current pain he was in. He unconsciously leaned into the touch, holding back a whimper as those hands strayed towards his stomach. He felt Sherlock’s breath catch near his ear, fingers running over his abdomen where the baby would continue form.

“We need to talk,” he croaked. There was so much to say and do and apologize for, but right now, he wanted to bask in the hold that could disappear any second. Their bond, torn and just a mere string, would be almost impossible to mend. He could tell Sherlock was desperate to say something, to hold him close and utter assurances, but couldn’t make himself. John also felt apprehensive and... _sad_.

 

* * *

 

Lestrade, seemingly against Sherlock’s wishes still hung around. Sherlock had snapped and growled, claiming he was obviously the father of John’s child and couldn't-he-go-away-already, but he still seemed skeptical. It was only when John assured him with quiet acceptance he would be fine that Lestrade left.

Now though, realizing he was alone with Sherlock, their child, and whatever he was feeling, John wished the detective was back with them.

He was currently seated in the loveseat opposite of Sherlock, subject to an intense observation by the consulting detective. He was somewhat glad for it, because he had no idea what to say. What should he start with? The truth? That he needed Sherlock and Sherlock needed him, and that he was considering having this baby but didn’t want to do it alone? What could he possibly say?

“So you kept it.”

Sherlock sounded void of emotion, face a mask. He was blocking John out, steepling his fingers and just generally looking defensive. John felt like he was the opposite; an open book for Sherlock to look at and observe. He couldn’t stop his hand from planting itself on his flat abdomen, thumb circling gently. It usually comforting, but when Sherlock noticed it made him feel anxious.

“I – uh, yeah.” John forced himself to meet his Alpha’s gaze, forcing himself not to get up and jump into his arms. “I couldn’t get rid of it, you know. I can’t – “ John took a deep breath, shifting. “I’ve decided to keep it and I…wanted…needed to see you.” Hesitant and slow, each word was spoken carefully. “Sherlock, I know what— Everything I told you—” John saw the Alpha's eyes narrow, hurt and pain reflecting in their depths.

 _Here goes nothing_.

“I know I said horrible—” his breath caught. Each word was difficult to say. “—horrible things, but I - I need you. I won’t be able to take care of this on my own. It’s practically suicide. I can’t even face my own friends—my own people. I know I— This is insane. I didn't mean to come like this, but... you have to admit; this is all sorts of fucked up.”

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly. He hadn’t moved, only blinked.

“I’m asking if you’ll help me. At least help me find a place to stay. Please, Sherlock.” Admitting this—even to himself—was an incredibly hard task. His voice quivered when he began to plead, and John worried he might become emotional. Pregnancy did that, didn’t it?

Sherlock finally moved, letting his guarded expression fall somewhat. “You are…my mate. It would be ridiculous of me to turn you away, especially with the new presence of our unborn child. The case of our torn bond can be fixed, but I can’t completely trust you, and I wonder if I ever will."

Despite how half of this was his fault, John winced with his admission, breath shortening with his panic. He had been the one to panic and tear the bond. God, what if he turned him away? What if he was reconsidering considering?

"However, you may stay. Of course you will.”

Sounding a little like himself, Sherlock allowed some warmth to seep into his gaze, but his eyes were trained on John’s stomach. John reminded himself again that he had been the one to reject Sherlock, and tried not to let the fact depress him. Of course he would care for the child more than himself. He could feel the remnants of their bond like a bad burn.

“Thank you.” It was the least he could do but it still felt odd. He rose and held out a hand without quite knowing what he was doing, and Sherlock seemed equally surprised. Their hands met and they gripped each other for a few moments, meeting eyes. John meant to pull his hand away but he couldn’t make himself. Sherlock was so warm.

Waves of heat that were coming from Sherlock and seemed to travel through their clasped hands. John swallowed and watched as Sherlock’s fingers traveling over his knuckles and rested above his wrist. After exposing the underside, his fingers dipped and John felt his pulse fluttering against the tips of Sherlock’s fingers. Their eyes met again. The air stilled.

After a moment of waiting, Sherlock slowly drew him in, hands traveling up his arms—searching, rather than in affection—until his hands rested on John’s shoulders. The army doctor collapsed against his touched, leaning in so that Sherlock had to pull him forward to catch him in an embrace. It was another agonizing few seconds until Sherlock tilted his head, breath tickling John’s ear, and kissed the skin there with the slightest pressure, the slightest give. John felt his heart race with fear more than anticipating but nonetheless allowed it— _needed_ it.

Sherlock pulled him into his lap, cradling his body as they fell gracelessly onto the loveseat. It was small and cramped for the two of them, but when John found himself in Sherlock’s lap, breathing into his neck as the Alpha gently probed his stomach, bubbles of what seemed to be happiness rose from within him. Sherlock's head dipped and his unruly mass of hair tickled John's ear as his lips searched, nose inhaling his fertile scent.

"John."

John shuddered and almost unwillingly relaxed. This was where he was meant to be. With both arms looped around and nose pressed into Sherlock’s neck as he inhaled, John knew this was home. He was afraid and shaking, but he'd be damned if he was meant to be anywhere else.


	7. Still working on it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is more hurt than we originally thought, and John discovers a lot more about Sherlock and himself than he needed - or thought he needed - to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins just after the heat, when John rejected Sherlock and the bond. It's probably going to seem really ooc, so I apologize in advance. As I see it, the bond is something that is strong and will affect him greatly. 
> 
> It's Sherlock POV, but you'll probably notice when it changes back to omniscient and/or otherwise. Hope there is no confusion!

When Sherlock stumbled from John's small country home, he was in pieces, tears in his eyes as he half-walked, half-ran. He'd had the presence of mind to fetch his clothing, but anything else had been of no concern.

John didn't want him. John had rejected him. John was going to get rid of their child.

Despite a lifetime of finding children annoying and ignorant, the idea of his own child suddenly became all-consuming. He realized he wanted a miniature Sherlock and John running about. He wanted to hear small feet pattering around the floor of his flat. He wanted John with him, bringing this child into his life, being his mate, his Omega. It was the most ridiculous, illogical, emotional idea to have ever crossed his mind, yet Sherlock had never wanted anything more than he wanted this. It was like the first time he experienced snow, or a breath of the murky London air. It was like solving his first case all over again!

Illogical. Idiotic. Stupid.

Brilliant. Beautiful. Natural.

When Sherlock felt the bond begin to rip, another harsh sob unwillingly tore past his lips. Why was John doing this? Couldn't he see they were meant to be together? They were perfect; he - John - was perfect. Sherlock may have not been the most ideal parent, but the rest of his qualities were logically the most appropriate. He was intelligent and clever; he could teach his son or daughter everything he knew, he could easily see what so many parents found impossible; why it was in tears, what it wanted, and with his brother eager to support him, funds would be readily available. Diapers were known to be perilously expensive. What else could one want in a father?

Why was John doing this to him?

He spied the edge of a house but his brain insisted on working unusually slow and it was seconds before he had acquired his position. As if by mere habit he immediately picked out Lestrade's police car parked just outside.

Sherlock paused to rub the tears from his cheeks, attempting compose himself with minimal results. It was imperative that he become the Sherlock Lestrade was accustomed to. If Lestrade saw him in tears, no doubt he would try and push his unbridled concern onto Sherlock, who wasn't in the mood for his misplaced kindness. Nothing would heal the hole in his newly formed heart.

Sherlock breathed until he had forced an uneasy calm onto himself; enough that Lestrade shouldn't notice. The Alpha approached the building, wary as he heard Lestrade talking to one of the villagers. Sherlock then straightened and stalked haughtily towards him. "You spent far too long ignoring this case, Lestrade. I've already solved it." He sounded like himself—of course he would—but when the detective turned to face him, caught between being irritated and pleased, his expression fell to one of shock.

Logically, Sherlock knew that he smelled thoroughly of John, and was perhaps still secreting the last of his pheromones, but he couldn't look that bad.

"I'm afraid I've been occupied over the last few days, but you only just arrived today. Finally bored of spending time fraternizing with my brother?" His comments should have annoyed the elder man, but Lestrade’s expression hadn't changed, trailing down his body.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Why?" he snapped. Sherlock knew he was playing dumb. He knew his eyes were red-rimmed and his neck was littered with love-bites. John's scent would be obvious; even Anderson couldn't miss it. That didn't mean he couldn't ignore it in favour of the case.

"Sherlock, what happe--"

"You're currently separated from your wife? No divorce, but—oh! you're living on your own. And your scent had mixed with that of my brother's? Lestrade, I never knew—"

"Fine, Sherlock. I get it; you don't want to talk. You've never confided in me before, and I don't expect you to now. Just…if you need anything, tell me. What can you can say about our guy?"

Sherlock's lips quivered. Lestrade kept looking at him, brows furrowed with concern despite moving onto a different subject. He didn't care though. Sherlock didn't _need_ his affections. He didn't need anyone's.

"The lumberman. He had a lover when he was still a doctor."

 

* * *

 

As soon as Sherlock was inside 221b, he collapsed. His life had always been so boring - was still boring - but for a brief moment he thought he might have...something. What, did he expect John to leave his parish for Sherlock's sake? John hadn't even wanted to be bred, and he hated being an Omega. Yet Sherlock had thought...

Stupid, stupid. He should have never gone back. Then he wouldn't have had to deal with this.

Late into the night, Sherlock remained awake. He was always awake, whether it was a result of the various nicotine patches or an experiment that was time sensitive. The first few nights were the worst. All he could think about was John. John, John, John! Sherlock would writhe and whimper in his bed, lashes fluttering with unshed tears, limbs reaching for a body that wasn't there. His mind, body, and soul felt utterly consumed with the loss.

He could feel John, God he could feel everything. His very bones rattled with the pain of a true bond, straining to stay strong, to repair itself. For some time, Sherlock dreamt and imagined that John might suddenly arrive and he would let Sherlock sweep him into his arms, kiss every inch of his body and restore their broken bond. He dreamt the impossible, letting reality become the dream.Sherlock refused cases, preferring to relive the memories over and over, wondering what he could do to change things, to make it work. Augh! It haunted him. He didn't eat, and he barely slept. 

Sherlock snapped at Mrs. Hudson and sent Lestrade away. Thinking of his mate's religious practice, he even tried praying, but gave up soon enough when he found it to be entirely too embarrassing, cheeks flushed [With shame? Unknown].

His mind was overcome with John and pain. When Sherlock slapped a fourth nicotine patch onto his arm, Mycroft paid him a visit.

Sherlock’s brother was an Alpha, but smelled like an Omega. He absolutely oozed Lestrade's revolting scent, but when Mycroft walked into the room, Sherlock looked like he wanted nothing better than to wrap himself around him and lose himself in the feeling of an Omega. 

His Omega. _John_. 

Mycroft opened his arms and Sherlock spent a few moments there, shaking with grief. Mycroft was warm and safe and his brother, but he wasn’t John. Mycroft already had a lover and his own happiness. It was useless to try and find solace in him simply for his biological making. He wasn't John. No one could replace John. When they parted, Mycroft moved back onto the love-seat and slid a case file over to Sherlock's side. 

"I won't do anything for you." Sherlock snarled.

"You will Sherlock, because you need to." Mycroft looked so utterly calm and smug and _fat_ with love and affection that Sherlock utterly despised him.

"How can you know how I feel? I thought I knew what I needed! How can you possibly know how unbearable this is?" Sherlock hissed, shuddering with the force of his own wrought emotions. Mycroft fingered the file and sighed softly.

"I will not let you destroy yourself. If you can't handle remembering, you must forget, brother."

Sherlock gazed at him, lips pressed into a firm line. 

"How do you deal with this?" He replied after some time, swiping at imaginary tears. Itching, _burning_ for movement and peace of mind, he stood up and gazed out the window, fists clenched tight. Mycroft stood up as well, reached into his pocket, and handed him a cigarette.

"If you need help, don't hesitate to call." He sounded far too happy, far too calm. He was lucky; Greg kept him happy and healthy. He couldn't possibly imagine what Sherlock was going through. He didn't have to _deal_.

It was the cigarette at his lips that kept him from snapping at his brother. Instead, he watched him leave in belligerent silence. The familiar drag of smoke in his lungs helped. He felt the tension drain from his body as his mind recalled the memories from just a week ago; reviewing them, pouring over each and every moment. His brain spun through the night, leaving him wondering what could change, wishing he could forget. Sherlock was irritated at his own inability to forget John, to delete him from his mind. He had tried, but halfway through the process he was quivering so hard that he stopped all-together. Apparently John was not going to vacate the premises any time soon. Fine.

Research. Sherlock excelled at research and studies. He’d discovered new bacteria, studied the medical field intensely and somehow made something of himself despite the world’s various opinions of him. Certainly he could find a way to rid himself of these pesky feelings [all biology, really]. Sherlock snatched his laptop from the kitchen counter and flopped boneless onto the couch.

Talk of severing bonds, anything that generally discussed bonding would be scarce; the Internet was a ferocious place and it would be looked down upon by many to speak of such things. People didn’t sever bonds unless it was truly dire; bonds were sacred and special. Sherlock was confident though that he might be able to find something. There had to be something - research, or first hand experience - that might rid of him of this problem.

The Alpha opened a page and immediately began his search. It was a bit complicated and tedious, but no real match for the dedication Sherlock was willing to put in. He would do anything to find an answer.

There were endless sites about bonds and how great they could be, and “what to do with your bond!” So much rubbish that stumped the general public and made them the idiots they were. 

Sherlock needed something concrete. If he could search “erase John”, he would.

The next time Sherlock noticed the clock, he realized hours had gone by. He grunted and scrubbed his hand over his face, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes. No one had anything useful to say; everyone encouraged bonding on those silly forums, and scorned him for thinking otherwise. They didn’t _understand._

There were some who spoke of the pain of a torn bond, but none of them had anything useful to say. Just prattled on about how it hurt and how hollow they were. Just like Sherlock.

The Alpha dug his palms into his eye-sockets, hissing. God, why couldn’t he be rid of him? Why did it have to hurt so much? It didn’t make any sense! His biology dictated that he wanted to mate and have children, yes, but that didn’t mean it should make him feel like this. He wasn’t in love with John. They’d bonded, but he didn’t really even know him. John was just....

“John.” Sherlock sighed and resigned himself to the situation. There was no way to completely sever the tie without John. He could probably do so with a few cutting comments and ill-thought texts, but just the thought of it had him wincing. An illogical part of himself wanted the bond to be fixed.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it?

Sherlock began take accept every case that came his way, whether it was excruciatingly simple or not. He eyed the case on his table until he found it in his hands, pouring over every word. Anything to forget. He resolved himself that all that would matter would be the work. He would not deal with his petty instincts any more, no matter how they felt.

The hole inside of him had now become a dull ache, a simple matter to ignore. The pain and suffering had been shoved so deeply inside himself that Sherlock doubted even he might find the key. Life would move on. He - bitter, lonely - would move forward.

That resolution was firm, until he ran from 221b, tongue heavy with an angry tirade he had prepared for Lestrade, and then saw John.

John. His limp was awful. He was enjoying London far more than his country parish. He was tense- nervous [To see Sherlock? Yes. He looked expectant but not prepared]. John hadn't slept well for the past few weeks [He missed Sherlock as much as the detective missed him? Possibly].

His eyes raked over John and a thousand things ran through his mind, but one thing was a definite; John had kept the baby. He could smell it, practically see the tell-tale signs radiating off of him.

Then all the cultivated resistance he had built to the man, any thoughts of rejection flew from his mind when John fell. Adrenaline rushed, and with a wild cry he threw himself at his mate, shoving Lestrade out of the way.

Then suddenly, John was in his arms. Oh God. John was quivering, delirious under _his_ touch. John. John. John!

"We need to talk," he croaked, eyes somewhat unfocused. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something - comfort him? Assure everything was going to be all right [It wasn't]? - but instead he simply held on, hoping John would explain himself without breaking Sherlock a second time.

 

* * *

 

Sitting across from John, Sherlock was able to observe him without his own insecurities and questions shining through. John however, was an open book for him to read. Every expression was painted on his face. John looked exhausted from a lack of sleep and various anxieties [too many to discern], and his hand kept fluttering to his stomach, thumb circling in assurance [their child was alive!]. What had changed? Why had he changed his decision? John, of course, had his own story to tell. He appeared anxious to say something, but it seemed to be lodged in his throat. It took some time for Sherlock to realize John was waiting for him to talk, so engrossed was he in his observations.

"So you kept it."

It had been the first thing on Sherlock's mind. Why? Did someone speak to him? What sort of epiphany completely changed the man's mind?

John flinched without realizing it. Did he expect Sherlock to be angry with him? Ah. John was uncomfortable with the tone of his voice; it was guarded and tense. Did he expect Sherlock to greet him with open arms and a warm smile? The Alpha nearly sneered. Then John spoke.

“I – uh, yeah.” John met his gaze and Sherlock felt his urge to wrap himself around John increase tenfold.

“I couldn’t get rid of it, you know. I can’t – “ The Omega shifted in his seat and appeared at a loss for words.

“I’ve decided to keep it--" Why? _Why_? "--and I…wanted…needed to see you.”

Sherlock blinked. How...honest.

John looked at him bashfully, hesitant with his words.

“Sherlock, I know what I told you.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed unwillingly as pain blossomed in his chest. He was reminded of how the serendipity of their mating had been ripped and twisted from his body with the most painful force imaginable.

“I know I said horrible—” John's eyes fluttered and his breath caught. “—horrible things, but I — I need you. I won’t be able to take care of this on my own. It’s practically suicide. I can’t even face my own friends—my own people. I know I— This is insane. I didn't mean to come like this, but…you have to admit; this is all sorts of fucked up." 

"I know." Sherlock had long acknowledged that what had happened had barely been coherently, let alone agreed upon, but it did not change his feelings. What had happened was concrete; it would not be changed.

"I’m asking if you’ll help me. At least help me find a place to stay. Please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was caught between wanting to comfort him and let him feel this pain. He was the one to reject Sherlock. _John_ had forced the rift, had opened it wide and ripped him to shreds. Sherlock could reply in the negative. Rejecting John would bear no weight upon Sherlock now [lie]. It would hurt as it did the days after their first coupling, but with their bond so weak, it was possible. Sherlock was tempted to; the bitter emotions festering in his chest urged him towards action. Sherlock could ruin John, ruin them both.

Then his expression fell to his mate’s abdomen and he felt warm as he looked towards their soon-to-be newborn. “You are…my mate. It would be ridiculous of me to turn you away, especially with the new presence of our unborn child." Ridiculous indeed. "Our torn bond can be fixed, but I can’t completely trust you, and I wonder if I will, ever."

John looked like he was about to burst into tears and/or hyperventilate as he paused for breath.

"However, you may stay. Of course you will.” His eyes strayed gleefully towards John's belly.

For some reason, John looked downcast. Had he wished in some part of himself for Sherlock to reject him? Preposterous. Either way, John had raised his hand - sealing the deal, as some liked to? - looking almost as shocked as Sherlock at his own bold move. He clasped John's hand into his own, instantly aware of the warmth that seeped into his fingers. God, just touching him had Sherlock reeling. He wanted to hold him close to his heart and never let him go.

The Alpha turned John’s wrist so the underside was exposed and then pressed his fingertips into the skin. John's eyes widened and Sherlock glanced up briefly; the Omega's heart rate was swift and fluttered under his fingertips. His eyes dilated and his breathing increased. John was undeniably attracted to him. This pleased Sherlock. He needed to touch him. Sherlock continued his trail up John's arms, hands exploring and feeling until he had reached the Omega's shoulders. Gripping them tightly, Sherlock caught John as he went limp. He then wrapped him in his arms [John. His John] and they collapsed onto the couch without preamble. Sherlock let his hand wander, curious. Their child was growing inside John's belly. Soon he would be round and full. The idea had the Alpha in shivers.

"John." He murmured, inhaling his addictive scent, determined to mix it with his own so it would be impossible to deny who was the father. He shuddered deliciously as John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s neck. John had accepted him. His mate was safe in his arms. Their _child_ was safe, and he was home.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent a good deal of time with John in his arms. They sniffed and nosed each other until the cramped space became too much, and then moved to the sofa. The Alpha stretched his Omega onto his back, kissing and snuffling his way up the man’s body. All of John’s skin was new and accessible; a rare treat he never believed would be within his grasp for a second time.

He kissed the soft skin of John’s belly, planting phantom patterns until John was shivering, though still. Sherlock took his time marking John. His touch was a far cry from a lover’s embrace; it would comfort both of them far more as an observation, an analytical test.

Sherlock turned his Omega over and ran his hands over the endless muscular expanse, dipping and curving around the angles and thick muscle that rippled occasionally under his fingers.

John was tense, rock solid under Sherlock’s direction; doubtless this was both heady and frightening for him, but he knew; John needed this. _Sherlock_ needed this.

Of course John wouldn’t have forsaken his religion, and Sherlock was wary of this - though it didn’t mean he had to like it - and he kept his hands where John wouldn’t want them to stray. But - God, John was going to smell like Sherlock’s favorite dessert, he knew it. He was already delicious, and soon his pheromones would slowly increase until he was driving Sherlock absolutely wild. 

John knew this, right?

For the first time, Sherlock wondered if John realized what he was getting himself into. What if he misunderstood the whole concept and hoped a platonic relationship was possible? Certainly not. The facts, however, proved it might be possible. He needed to test the waters. Turning him back around, Sherlock wiggled his body, sharp angles and gainly limbs until they were flush. Sherlock’s left knee was pressing into John’s calf and his right foot was hooked around John’s ankle; they were deliciously close.

Careful not to disturb the man’s rickety calm, Sherlock peered into John’s haggard face and leaned in the slightest bit, tipping his head to the left in such a way that made it perfect for a spontaneous kiss. Surely John wasn’t stupid. He would know what Sherlock’s gaze, flickering to his lips, and his posture indicated.

As expected, John tensed and pressed his lips together, as if to protect his own chastity, though he didn’t move his hips from under Sherlock. He was aware how serious the situation was, he couldn’t afford to tear any rifts into the bond.

John didn’t resist when Sherlock slowly lowered his head, but when their lips met there was no response. He lay rigid as Sherlock slid his lips over his Omega’s. He knew it could feel amazing if he would simply let himself go, but he couldn’t quite get there yet. Sherlock was persistent though, if anything. He kept kissing John softly, pushing his plump cupid’s bow into John’s own, who sat there until Sherlock emitted a soft whine of frustration.

With the gentlest of sighs, John parted his lips and began to reciprocate. His body unwillingly relaxed with the invitation, and he found himself soon seeking more. It was so wrong, God, but it felt so good. John felt an answering whine rise and he cupped Sherlock’s cheek to try and take charge of the kiss. He wasn’t a wilting flower. Just a pregnant one.

He shuddered in surprise when Sherlock began to kiss him in earnest. His lips, soft and warm pressed with greater insistence, tongue tracing the edges of his teeth before diving in. It was intimate, and John forced himself not to retreat and instead welcome Sherlock’s slightly sour breath with a huff of his own.

Sherlock’s hand was on his hip then, thumb rubbing small circles as he nosed his Omega’s neck. The intoxicating scent beckoned him; in reaction his trousers grew tighter, his breath catching against his mate’s soft hairs. Sherlock felt himself begin to harden on John’s hip, feeling guilty - and furious that he felt that way. John was his mate! It was absolutely ridiculous that he should feel shame for a natural reaction.

Feeling heady and frustrated, Sherlock thrust his hand between them and pressed his palm against John’s growing erection. The reaction was instantaneous. John shoved Sherlock off of him, looking pale, and in his shock the Alpha could do little but stare as John lunged for the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

John knew that he was going to deal with hormones, and with pheromones, and every other irritating bit that pregnancy had to offer, but somehow he’d convinced himself that in coming here, things might be semi-normal. Sherlock wouldn’t want to touch him, would only offer his services when needed, and they could continue as....well, they’d never been anything, but they could be flatmates, maybe.

It was ridiculous of him to come. It was reckless. Sherlock, a strong Alpha, would want him. Sharing a flat, a baby, would not be easy. John just thought - well, he hadn’t thought. He’d come intending to visit, to simply gaze at Sherlock, and then suddenly it all came pouring out; he needed help. He couldn’t do it alone. He needed Sherlock. Need, need, need.

John didn’t actually know where the bathroom was, so he dry-heaved into the sink over some hideous mass that hung on its edges. Nothing came out, but he felt disgusted with himself. He had _liked_ the kissing. He’d liked the touching and feel of Sherlock’s lips on his skin, the pressure of his hips and the gentle fingers dipping into his skin. But when Sherlock touched his most intimate area, John’s mind caught up with him and screamed, _NO_.

He couldn’t help it. Revulsion - for himself - rose and he thought he might be sick. John gripped the sink’s edge and groaned, wanting nothing better than to bury himself in the ground and never come up again. Sherlock would probably be offended and angry with him. John couldn’t blame him; he was moving on instinct, something that had built inside of him all of his life to hate. John was a coward who couldn’t seem to handle that he was attracted to a man, and that he was going to live with him.

“You really should stop that.” John froze. “If we’re to live together, your inhibitions are going to get in the way. I will be touching you. Intimately.”

“Live together. Right, um.” God, he was really going to do this. Live with Sherlock Holmes. A man, whom he barely knew, and who was as arrogant as - well, he was very arrogant.

"We need to talk about this. Living together." John protested, backed up against the sink, eyes wide despite himself. His breath was coming out in short puffs, and his heart rate was fluttering like a humming bird's. “One: I want privacy. I need some time to think about all of this. It’s - I won’t be able to...touch all the time, like you want.” He wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. 

“Privacy? What sort of privacy could you need? I’ve seen you at your most vulnerable, and in your most intimate areas. We’re to have a child, John,” he drawled, irritated.

John took a deep breath, steadying himself. Focusing on Sherlock’s lips, not a good idea. “I know, but this is different. I’m not used to this. I want to...be with you,” his face reddened; “but I also need some time to be by myself. This is a lot to think about. I originally came here to just see you and then—well.”

Sherlock blinked, and leaned against the door-frame. 

“There are a few things you should know about me if we’re to live together.” He suddenly burst out. “I play the violin when I’m thinking, at all hours and sometimes I don’t talk for many of them. I tend to experiment for the sake of either scientific exploration, if not a case. I have no inhibitions when it comes to the needs of many. I’d rather keep body parts in the fridge than food. It slows me down, anyway.”

Sherlock took a short breath and focused his eyes on John, as if daring him to remark. It didn’t take the Omega long to realize what Sherlock was doing; he was listing his worst qualities, trying to either assure John would never leave or convince him to before he became too invested.

“Body parts— Christ.” He was prone to taking the Lord’s name in vain quite a bit. “I need some time to process this! I don’t even really know what you’re saying. Just give me time to think about this.” Scientific exploration?

Sherlock snarled, his worry that John might change his mind overriding his common sense. “If you wanted time you should have stayed in your old parish.”

Sherlock was actually a bit scary when he was snarling at him like that. John felt his heart flutter with both appreciation and fear— as well as anger. Sherlock didn’t have a right to treat him like that. “Okay, Sherlock. Maybe I’ll go then,” John threatened. “The last train isn’t set to leave for a long time. And I have time.” He crossed his arms, glaring.

When Sherlock looked panicked, John’s composure softened and he sighed. “Listen. I want to try this. I’ll stay here tonight and maybe give a sort of…trial run, if you want. I just need a bit of time to myself.”

Sherlock seemed relieved - if not pleased - about the prospect. Then, without another word to his Omega, he stalked down the hall. John blinked after him, confused and a bit frightened, left to his own devices.

And what a mess those were. He was still trying to process what Sherlock had been saying. Body parts over food? Experiments? He glanced at the fungus-like substance in the sink and then peered at it closely. Was that one of those then?

He sniffed it, and then recoiled in disgust. There was a note beside the sink, displaying different times and dates with a few words.

What could this possibly mean? Was Sherlock some sort of scientist, aside from detective work? Maybe this was a hobby, albeit a strange one.

Remembering Sherlock’s frightening words regarding body parts, John warily opened the fridge. What he saw made him gasp.

“Oh my Go— a head. He has a bloody head in there. Jesus, what if he’s—” A mad scientist? A crazy cannibal? John was suddenly doubting himself, doubting Sherlock, and he felt his heart quiver.

What if Sherlock was bad news? He was with the police, but had they ever seen the inside of his flat? Did any of them really know him? What did John know about Sherlock, anyway? His family, his background?

Panic began to curl within the Omega, slowly growing. He grabbed his luggage - which Lestrade had left by the door, bless him - and moved to where Sherlock had gone. Sleep sounded nice.

He paused in the middle of the room. Should John move into Sherlock’s room? Did Sherlock even have a spare room? For the first time, John was really dreading being with Sherlock.

The man himself then walked out. John froze, forcing himself to relax and keep his expression neutral. Sherlock gazed at him, reading every little detail on his face, scrutinizing him, and then his expression tightened. He gripped the doorway with more force than was necessary.

“There’s an extra bedroom upstairs.”

John didn’t ask how he knew, he just nodded, feeling strangely ashamed and out of his depth - rightfully so, in his opinion. He didn’t look directly at Sherlock when he passed by, though he felt his gaze up each and every step. Only when he was in the spare room did he breathe.

Putting his luggage down (which wasn’t very much. He meant only to visit), John scanned the room, expecting to see something horrendous and and maybe nauseating. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the room was nearly empty save for a few boxes of things, here and there, and maybe a flask or two on the desk. It seemed as though Sherlock had forgotten this room, or at least never used it. Maybe he was just too lazy to bound up the stairs constantly. The thought brought a chuckle from the priest.

John undressed quickly and efficiently, noticing that - luckily - the bed was made already. He moved closer, curious. Had Sherlock slept here once? Maybe when his room was filled with experiments or what-have-you?

Would it smell like him?

Breath catching, the Omega climbed onto the bed and dipped his head into the pillow, inhaling deeply. A musky, dusty scent permeated, but it wasn’t the detective’s.

Disappointed, John managed to find the loo, brushed his teeth, and then back into the spare bedroom.

Occupying this spare space that Sherlock barely paid attention to made him feel like a spare. The part he didn’t necessarily care about. It was a painful thought, and as John clambered under the covers, he tried not to think about it too much.

 

* * *

 

John slept fitfully most of the night. He was prone to nightmares and meager hours of sleep, but it felt like it had been a very long time since he’d slept so badly. He woke up at many different times, hot and delirious, tangled in the sheets. He flipped and turned, unable to find a comfortable spot. Dreams wracked his brain, harsh and demanding of his attention. Dreams he didn’t remember when he woke.

Falling out of the bed was the last straw. With a growl of frustration the ex-army doctor stumbled to the door and into the bathroom, taking his time to relieve his bladder and wash his face with some cold water. A strange sound met his ears when he turned the faucet off. It was...it sounded like music.

The music paused and the flat was filled with silence again. John waited, holding his breath. After what felt like years, it started again. Soft and mournful, filled with irritating scratches like someone was taking their anger and sorrow out on the instrument.

_‘I play the violin at all hours, when I’m thinking...’_

John didn’t know what time it was, but something was telling him it wasn’t the best time for a recital. The Omega moved silently the hallway, letting the music lead him to the stairs, and then down into the living room. When he peered around the corner, there he was.

Sherlock was still dressed, which was odd in itself, and he was facing the window as he played. John couldn’t see his face to know what he was feeling, or whether he would be welcome or not.That thought stopped him. Yes, he wanted to listen. Sherlock wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t getting any damn sleep either, so why not? He hesitated by the doorway, waiting for a pause or for him to turn around. When he didn’t, John moved forward. Like a moth to a flame, drawn by the sheer force of gravity that is Sherlock Holmes and all of his brilliance, he stepped into the middle of the room, not bothering to hide the sound.

Sherlock froze, pausing. How long, John wondered, did Sherlock really know he was there? Maybe the whole time. Maybe only just now, broken from his thoughts. John waited, unmoving, silent. Neither of them spoke, but the air was electric with feeling. The silence became deafening, like a black hole that was about to suck the two of them in. John became almost desperate with the urge to speak, to break this oppressive silence. He nearly did, opening his mouth, practically vibrating with it.

Then Sherlock began to play again. A softer sound, almost a pleasant sound. His fingers danced over the board, and John moved. He sat down in the chair behind Sherlock, watching as his bones shifted and moved under his shirt, sharp and angled. He longed to run his fingers over the skin, maybe even kiss it.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sherlock slowed. His playing became languid, soft, alluring. John swore he’d heard this song somewhere, but couldn’t possible name it. He leaned back and closed his eyes, focusing on the music and the image his Alpha made, all stark, sharpened beauty.

John felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He felt the stiffened muscles and lack of sleep drift away, a pleasant bubble forming in his chest. It grew and grew, slowly taking up more and more space until John thought he might explode from the pressure of it all. Then Sherlock’s playing crested, climbing to its highest and John’s breath caught; the bubble inside exploded, making him tingle and jerk slightly. It felt like their bond had tried to pull him closer to Sherlock.

Unaware - or perhaps completely aware - Sherlock continued to play, growing softer and softer, letting the song drift away with John’s consciousness. His eyelids tugged, drawing down despite his efforts, and his breathing deepened. When Sherlock finished and turned, John was asleep, peacefully so. The detective moved and set his violin down, kneeling by John. He swept his fingers analytically over his forehead, hesitating as he read the night’s events in the lines on his face and the crease in his brow.

A strange sense of guilt and regret settled over him like a weight. He had forced all of this onto John. He had been selfish and let biology decide for him. John didn't want this, had never wanted this, but now he had to. Sherlock was the cause.

If given the choice, would John have gone back? Would he have gone back to his life, where he wasn't happy but he was content? Sherlock couldn't make him happy; he didn't think he could make anyone happy. They all left him, eventually. Would John, one day? Their bond ached and fluttered, stronger - but still weak - between them, and he sighed softly. He would try to do better. He had to, at least for his own sake as well as John's. Maybe he could make someone happy, if not content.

Sherlock picked up the sleeping man, careful not to wake him. He felt his breath puff softly into his neck, the fruity scent of his mate drifting under his nose. No doubt John would sleep fitfully if he were to put him in his own room.

The Alpha carried him to his own bed and threw the covers back, carefully depositing John on the left side before crawling in himself. He wiggled and moved until he was pressed into the Omega’s side, a sigh of pleasure escaping. In his sleep, John moved until he was practically on top of Sherlock, breath huffing out shortly in his dreams.

Sherlock froze for a moment, pondering. Certainly John would be angry with him in the morning if he woke up in Sherlock’s bed. He had spoken of privacy and other ludicrous notions. Although John would sleep much worse if he did leave him to his own devices. Trying to care for another person was becoming a far too tiring task.

Sighing, he moved back a bit and wrapped his arms around John, letting them settle heavily on his back. The Omega sighed in his sleep, burying his face into Sherlock’s chest. He inhaled [an unconscious decision?] and then went limp in the detective’s arms, who hesitantly bent down until his nose was buried into John’s hair; he inhaled. John’s scent made him feel heady and pleasant, and all dark thoughts were wiped from his mind.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would deal with everything. For now, he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, my duckies. I can only apologize. I tried to make it long for you.
> 
> Huge thank you to my beta, Meganbobness. Beautiful creature.


	8. I call it Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sees a little bit more of Sherlock; they're making some headway in the middle of a murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say thanks to my stand-in, ice-evanesco! She is so lovely.

Heat. Sherlock was surrounded by heat. His bed was located near one of the vents, so this was the first strange thing to occur to him.

The second was that, for the first time in years, he had woken up to the painful throb of his groin. The Alpha lifted his head from the sleeping Omega's [John. Took him to bed. Might be angry: unpredictable] and realized he might be the cause. He was emitting the subtlest, most lovely scent Sherlock had the privilege to inhale.

He leaned into the soft path of hair on the back of his neck [Warm and slightly damp] and breathed; it _was_ lovely. Sherlock's cock twitched in his trousers, trapped between the two of them. It was pressed tightly against John's arse; the urge to rut wildly until he reached completion was overwhelming.

Sherlock tore himself from the comforting heat before he did something John would find unpleasant and headed for the loo.

 

* * *

 

John woke up disoriented. This was not his bed, but it wasn't the bed Sherlock had designated as his own for a time. He tried to move, blinking away his sleep, but found a hand was planted on his stomach, holding him there. John shifted the slightest bit, becoming wholly aware that Sherlock was all over him. His groin was pressed against his backside, and if he concentrated he swore he could feel— John shivered and tried to move away, but it was like he was strapped in. 

His own crotch was hot and heavy with arousal, increasing the more he thought about Sherlock, about the shared Heat weeks ago, about how he couldn’t get him out of his head— John nearly whimpered, overcome with the urge to push back against the welcoming heat and bear his throat. He ignored the pleasant curling of his stomach and gently shook Sherlock's arm.

"I assume you'll want breakfast." His deep baritone rumbled, hoarse with sleep. John jumped. How long had he been awake? Could he smell the arousal on him? Did he know?

John's heart was pounding, but Sherlock gave no indication he had noticed anything, simply moved his hand from where it had rested. Thank God for small mercies.

"I— yeah. That'd be nice." Sherlock untangled himself and hopped off of the bed, apparently content to leave their strange situation unacknowledged. A pity John wasn't so inclined.

"You...carried me to bed, then. Yours." It wasn't a question, but Sherlock tensed, looking disgruntled as he turned to face him.

"You are my Omega. You had not been sleeping well and it was ludicrous to deposit you into your own bed if it was obvious you would find no rest there. For the sake of the child—" John thought he heard a slight hitch, "—it would only be logical to sleep within my presence, a biological calming mechanism. Surely you aren't stupid, John? It is essential for a child to grow in a healthy manner, and this is by far the healthiest."

It took John a moment. Okay, more like a minute. He wasn't ready for Sherlock-speak when he'd just woken up. Blinking away weariness, John let the words sink in and felt a small smile forming.

It was going to take some time, but he was figuring out a few things on his own. 

When Sherlock was nervous, he tended to fold in on himself. He went robotic and spouted words in such a way that he formed a wall around himself. If he didn't seem like he cared, nothing could hurt him. It was almost pitiful how easily John could now see that he was worried about what he might think. It made him seem more human. John felt a rush of affection, relaxing the slightest bit. He didn't quite get the man, but he couldn't be all bad.

"Well, thanks." John scratched at his neck, trying not to blush. It was true; he hadn't been sleeping well at all. This was the first night in weeks he'd felt this well-rested. He experimentally stretched his muscles, wincing when one or two protested. "Breakfast would be lovely."

"Good.” He was relieved. “There's—" Sherlock's phone interrupted him and his focus shifted. John took this chance to escape to the shower without having his problem exposed.

 

* * *

 

He turned the faucet and then let the water warm up, stripping of his clothing. After being encased in such heat all night, he realized he was fairly sweaty, his clothing sticking to him. Not to mention his hair— John chuckled when he looked in the mirror. He was definitely due for some proper cleaning.

He stepped under the rushing water, sighing against the warmth. His prick twitched, reminding him he had something of which to take care. His hand hovered hesitantly, undecided even as his fingers unconsciously slipped around and gripped his cock. Shame and pleasure churned inside of him as he pulled at his skin, warming quickly under the spray. With each careful brush of his fingers, the pressure increased. His lips trembled and he let loose a quiet moan. John attempted to fantasize about a woman, or a faceless stranger, but his mind was adamant; Sherlock was his Alpha. No one else could make him feel so— so—

He thrust into his hand, breath hitching as the pleasure became too much. His muscles locked and he was powerless, Sherlock's name tumbling from his lips.

John leaned his head against the wall, shame still curling in his stomach. He could do this. _Come on Johnny._

* * *

 

He just had to find himself. John had been happy before Sherlock. Happy with his life and where he was. Maybe a little bored, but that didn’t mean life was bad. Now he was lost again, thrown into a dark chasm that might have no end unless he found something to grab onto.

John knelt by his—Sherlock’s—bed, feeling strangely awkward; would it be wrong to pray in this place, where so much sin had likely gone on? What was sin to him now? What was good? 

Previously, it had been abstaining, keeping to the code, leading a good life. He hardly imagined Sherlock led a _good_ life. Maybe an interesting, fulfilling one though. Could John be a part of that? Could he move past what he’d held onto for so long, just to keep himself sane, for this man? For this child?

It was an insane notion, one he couldn’t believe he was considering. Sherlock was _kind of_ an gigantic arse. Arrogant sod. Brilliant thinker, though. God, he was gorgeous.

John felt discomforted by the thought, trying to wrap his mind around it.

He’d been denying himself certain things for so long because he was lost and in need of an anchor. That anchor was gone and he needed a new one. How would he know if he should accept certain things or throw them away? He couldn’t simply give up in God. He thought of Mike. God loved all of his children, even the naughty ones.

John smiled and began to pray.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was waiting impatiently by the sofa when John emerged, freshly showered and smelling heavenly. Like Sherlock [his shampoo]. The Alpha clenched his fists and waved one in the direction of the doorway. "Are you coming?" he hissed, looking about ready to pull John along with him by force.

The Omega was more surprised that Sherlock had waited for him at all; he'd assumed he would be gone by now. John had been hoping to have the flat to himself, maybe even get something to eat—his stomach was informing him urgently that he now had _two_ mouths to feed—but Sherlock was practically vibrating with energy. John resigned himself to following the madman, secretly pleased that he—well, cared. Sherlock was obviously prone to instinctual desires, but when it came to something that wasn't for his initial benefit, John wasn't entirely sure he would be on his side. Knowing he was itching to go and _could_ go gave him some confidence.

It took a bark from Sherlock to break him of his reverie and to move for his coat.

“Yes. Um, where are we going?” he slipped his arms through and patted himself down, following the quickly moving Alpha. His limp twinged when he tried to go down the stairs a bit too fast, but it wasn’t a bad as it usually felt. It actually seemed a bit better. Not by much, but.

“Scotland Yard. A case, John!” The excitement in his voice surrounding his name made the Omega feel ridiculously pleased and he shook his head as the man hailed a cab with a magical wave of his hand.

 

* * *

 

“A case?” Once John had settled, one hand rubbing his leg, he looked at the Alpha. “Can’t it wait, whatever it is? And why do they need you? Why do you do all of this?” Questions buzzed; it was hard enough not spouting ten more.

Sherlock didn’t look unhappy, even pleased by his curiosity. “I’m a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth they “consult” me.”

John shifted, glancing out the window. “Why not just join the police force? Then you wouldn’t have to wait for them to consult you.” Sherlock snorted.

“I invented the job; therefore I only answer to myself. I’m not fond of dealing with incompetence on a daily basis.”

“Do you get paid, at least?”

“No, not unless I take a private case.” John frowned.

“Then what’s the point?” Sherlock turned to him, approval in his eyes. He was asking the right questions. He leaned in close, hand sliding across the cheap vinyl seat to rest beside John’s head. His eyes lit up.

“Don’t you see, John? It’s not about the money or fame—I don’t care for that rubbish. I do it because it’s _fun_.” John could feel his breath brush over his lips. “The thrill of the chase. Knowing I am right and they are wrong. It keeps my mind and body occupied.”

The Alpha was incredibly close and John swore he could feel the warmth radiating off of him. If he tilted his head, those long fingers would brush his ear. If the cab jerked forward (a possibility), their faces might touch. Might even manage a kiss.

It was insane how much he wanted to move forward right at that moment. He didn’t even breathe. Sherlock smelled, he smelled—

Sherlock’s eyes flickered to his lips, something heavy burning in his gaze. Then he looked in John’s eyes and moved away, taking his presence with him.

John breathed, both disappointed and relieved. God (he was starting to take His name in vain a lot more now). He looked out the window and pressed his left hand against his knee, surprised to find that it was completely steady.

 

* * *

 

When the two reached the Yard, John was immediately overwhelmed and on edge. Perhaps it had been an oversight of Sherlock’s to be comfortable with the situation. He was pregnant, for God’s sake, and hadn’t been confronted by the matter this directly before [Save Lestrade. He doesn’t count].

As soon as they stepped on the crime scene, all eyes turned to the two of them. Sherlock strolled past the lot of them, fingers clenched. John, however, remained frozen for a vital few extra seconds. The Alpha had to turn around and beckon him with his gaze.

John wasn’t heavily pregnant—he wouldn’t show for some time—but everyone could _smell_ it. Not in the same way Sherlock could, that told him he should protect and care for his Omega, but they knew. And John knew _they_ knew, which was why his face was growing more flush as he continued on to Sherlock, gait awkward and knuckles white [his left hand wasn’t shaking; interesting].

“What are we doing here?” he whispered, nerves making him completely obtuse. Did John not remember a single word from the cab ride?

“Obvious.” With a wave Sherlock walked confidently to Lestrade’s side, pleased to see John coming up behind him marginally relax.

It was someone he recognized. No doubt a comfort. "Lestrade," Sherlock practically purred. The DI rolled his eyes.

"You could at least _try_ to have some shame, Sherlock." John coughed to hide his laugh, feeling himself relax even further. He didn't know this Omega, Lestrade, but he was a familiar face among a sea of people that turned their displeased eyes on him. He moved closer to the DI reflexively, eyes scanning the small group of Yardsmen and forensics.

None of them seemed very keen on Sherlock. In fact, some of them scowled or went as far as to say something that made John want to wince. At least, that dark-haired one did.

"Anderson," he heard Sherlock greet coldly. The two leaned towards each other and growled. Two Alphas like them in the same place? Jesus.

"Is it always like this?" John ventured, turning to face the worried Omega. Maybe that was what made John feel so comforted. It’d been a long time since he’d met one of his kind.

"Unfortunately. Anderson and Sherlock never stop; they're as bad as my daughters." He sighed wistfully. “You'll get used to it quick. Or invest in earplugs." Lestrade grinned wryly. 

"Or a pint of beer.” John returned his smile. “I can't remember the last time I got one of those. Watsons don't do well with the drink. Not really a priest's thing either."

 _Former priest_ , his mind supplied helpfully. He was about to brood on the subject when he caught the DI's worried eye.

"Listen... Mr. Watson--"

"Just John."

"John. I'm beginning to realize your situation is not... Well it's hardly conventional. Just, Sherlock doesn't seem the type, and I think I know what's happened. You were - are - hell, I don't know, a damn priest and now you're here, with him? If you need any—"

They were interrupted by a nasty snarl, turning to look just as Sherlock launched himself at Anderson, face a mask of fury. John had never seen such a look on him before.

"Don't you dare open your mouth again you ignorant swine, or shall I let the Yard know about your little _problem_?"

John leaned over to Lestrade, wary. "I assume this is normal, too?" 

"Not bloody likely.” he muttered. “Hey!" Lestrade marched over to the Alphas where Sherlock was being restrained, tearing Anderson apart with his eyes.

"Sherlock, what the bloody fuck are you doing assaulting my team?"

Said Alpha glared, eyes flickering to John. "He made some less than helpful comments about _my_ Omega." Sherlock was shaking, visibly thrown.

John wasn't exactly sure what to feel at the revelation. Sherlock was angry at Anderson--for insulting him, apparently. He hadn't seen him wear that look before. His alien face was twisted in rage, and all for him.

It made a queer happiness bubble in his chest. Respectively, it also made him uneasy. Who was this Alpha to assume he couldn't take care of himself? John didn't _need_ Sherlock; he used to be a soldier, damn it.

John approached them, wary of both Alphas but unafraid. "Sherlock," he hissed, expecting anything other than being completely ignored to growl at Anderson. The Alpha shook himself in the Yarder’s grip, lips twitching. What he wouldn’t give to wrap his fingers around Anderson’s neck...

"Sherlock!" John repeated, a note of desperation for the situation rising when he refused to answer his calls. It was only that, probably, that broke Sherlock of his trance.

As soon as the Alpha was out of his restrainer's arms, he was hovering over John, looking disturbed, like he didn't know what to do with himself. His instincts were on high ever since he'd learned of his Omega's condition.

John turned to him with intentions of reprisal, freezing when he saw the expression he wore. He looked frightened, eyes wide and jaw tight.

"Sherlock?" he tried.

He blinked and turned away from John. With that, it appeared whatever crisis Sherlock had undergone was over, for he swept through the lot of them and scanned the scene.

"The crime, Lestrade?"

John could only gape. What was he playing at? The DI sighed. "Three bodies, unidentified as of now. Two male, one female. The only ID found yet is of a Jerry Cruncher. There was--"

"No sign of forced entry, yes yes I _know_. Even you could solve this so tell. Me. What you're holding back." He didn't appear to be in a tolerant mood. Lestrade indulged him.

"See the bullet at the back of his skull? There was no forced entry, and in the basement there are no windows."

Sherlock's eyes grew wide with glee, moving to inspect. John hobbled after him, curious to take a look (and see some more of Sherlock at work, he admitted). The Alpha circled the bodies, eyes scanning over their persons quickly over each before he repeated the action at a slower rate.

Whiplash fast, his fingers dipped and hovered over the head of one, inspecting. His eyes narrowed and lips parted with a soft “oh.”

It was truly amazing to watch Sherlock move over the bodies in his fascinating way. When the Alpha's intense, searching gaze slid over to John, a hot wave of arousal ran through him. John held his gaze for a moment too long, pulse quickening, and he instead focused on the body of the woman in front of him.

"No forced entry, you said?" A snort met his query.

"Must everything be repeated? I hate dealing with stupidity." The venom in that statement was palpable. John stared in shock, not quite used to seeing him so....irritable. Cross.

With a frown, hearing Lestrade already reprimanding Sherlock, John peered at the bullet wound; it was angled so that no mere man could have done it. It would be a feat if Sherlock could manage it.

Sherlock. Jesus. What was that man doing? One moment he was snarling over his withstanding dignity, and the next he was tossing him away for decomposing flesh. It didn’t help that Sherlock wouldn’t tell him what the hell he was thinking half the time. He’d looked like he wanted to say something before, but considering where they were...well. Maybe later, if he was lucky.

A strange, bitter feeling in his chest emerged—again. He felt it in small doses; an itch, sort of. Every time he gazed at Sherlock, John was caught between feeling anger and something else, instinctual and strong. It made his head spin and his heart ache. He didn’t really know _how_ to feel. John had always known who he was, what he was doing, and what he was meant to do. Now, it had all changed, so where was he? His stability was lost (the Church, his cozy, _safe_ town) and he felt like he was drowning, not knowing if he should sink or swim.

John wasn’t sure he knew himself.

Sherlock said something and John was shaking it off, focusing on the madman darting around the crime scene. He didn’t once look at John, feeding that slow burn under his skin.

John breathed. “Well?” Lestrade looked at him and shrugged. Sherlock leaned in close and examined the bullet wounds, eyes lighting up as they darted around the room.

“You performed an extensive search?”

“Yeah.” Lestrade nodded and Sherlock shot up, moving towards the wall. “You will find the killer’s weapons located...” He paused and glanced at the bodies, spinning around to point at a high area of the right wall. “Here.”

“What?” John exclaimed.

“Must all of you be so _stupid_? It’s obvious; there was no killer in the room, no forced entry, but 

these people came in and got shot. It could have come from a particularly good sniper—unlikely, considering the windowless room—or there’s something hidden in the walls. Considering the angle...”

Sherlock reached up and felt around the wall, knocking until he heard a hollow sound. “There.”

“Amazing.” Both sets of eyes turned to him and John smiled, embarrassed.

“Do you realize you do that out loud?”

He deflated a little bit. “Right. Sorry. I won’t— sorry.” Either Sherlock felt bad about the heat of his comment, or he noticed John’s distress, for his eyes softened.

“It’s. It’s fine.” He sounded almost embarrassed himself. The silence dragged on until Lestrade moved closer to John, pointing at the wall.

“Right. Any idea what the motive might be?”

“I’m a consultant, not a magician, Lestrade.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and you just happened to know where the killer’s weapon would be?”

“I observed. Whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. The only logic here, with three victims that seem to have no connection, is that the killer lured them here somehow and set a trap. Ah, but then you wonder: where would the weapon be?”

Both of the Omegas shot him doubtful looks. “All right! A bit of a shot in the dark, but I was right, wasn’t I? Check out that wall.” Lestrade grumbled and patted John on the shoulder, moving back to call out for a couple of hammers.

Sherlock looked at John fully now that they were alone, and he was flush with being right once again. When their eyes met though, his expression clouded and he turned.

John felt his irritation lash at his insides. “What’s with you?” he exploded. “Why do you— why are you looking like that?”

“Like what? Really John, be specific.”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You know perfectly well what I mean.” John crossed his arms, in all his intimidating five feet. Sherlock’s lips twisted and he steepled his fingers, still not looking at John.

“I. Am not accustomed to...caring for someone. You are my Omega now, with my. My _child_.” How could he describe it? How could John understand the effort it took to give into this- this biology. 

Never before had he cared for another person so dearly. If John were an irritating companion, it would be easier. But Sherlock _liked_ him, and he was fraught with emotions he shouldn’t have trouble dealing with

When Anderson insulted John he had exploded. Never had he felt such a rage, such an urge to protect right then than ever before. His emotions were getting the better of him. And he hardly knew what to do with himself when his instincts told him to surrender his attention to John. It felt as if he was being controlled—and he didn’t like it.

“I don’t quite know how to handle it,” he admitted, surprisingly quiet. John moved closer on instinct, his own will to protect overriding any fears.

“By ‘it’ do you mean the—” It was hard to manage the words “—baby?” Sherlock turned to him, that desperate, lost expression from earlier back.

“It’s everything. It. You. I can’t control myself around you. I feel—” he broke off, and maybe that was just it. He was feeling things, and it frightened him.

Sherlock’s hands settled on John’s shoulders, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. He looked surprised by his own actions, face twisting. Would John take offense?

However, John seemed to relax into his touch, something on his face clearing. He looked less worried, softer. It was the first time they had touched since that morning. Sherlock moved closer. John allowed it, looking up into his eyes. The Alpha fancied he might have been able to kiss him. 

John certainly looked pleasant enough.

The Alpha’s lips twitched, the urge encompassing his being. He leaned down slightly, fingers unconsciously drumming on the Omega’s shoulders. 

“John,” he said softly, gazing into his eyes. Did he look expectant? Sherlock leaned down and pressed his nose to the skin just under John’s ear, nuzzling the soft expanse. With a single huff, both of them barely daring to breath, he pressed a feather-light kiss onto his neck.

He felt arms wrap loosely around his waist. 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice wavered—he seemed caught. Sherlock inhaled [his scent was still lovely and ripening], parting his lips to give his neck an open-mouthed kiss. John shivered, repressing a sound.

This was strangely comforting. Sherlock felt the loose-controlled panic that had settled in him begin to dissipate, a strange contentedness easing into his pores. He left butterfly kisses across John’s neck, burying his face in the crook of it, even if it hurt his neck to do so.

His left hand found John’s stomach, fingers sliding across the expanse. A _life_ was growing there. Another person, a mixture of the two of them. Completely human with tiny facilities just like their own. Sherlock turned his face up, mouthing a path up the Omega’s artery.

“You’re _pregnant_ ,” Sherlock said with quiet awe, as if he had only just realized this, like it was the most amazing thing in the universe. John shuddered and gripped Sherlock’s shoulders, tilting back his head.

“Yes,” he answered breathlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress! And more of the case to come.


	9. Gunshots in empty rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's that man in the suit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally endless thanks to my beta ice_evanesco for being there for me, assuring me this is all right while I explode from nerves. This chapter made me really anxious. Hope you like.

The moment was, naturally, ruined by Lestrade coming in with the rest of his team. Luckily, Lestrade the first to arrive and manage to catch the two of them in an embrace, Sherlock’s lips brushing John’s cheekbone. The Omega looked a bit dazed and blissed out, fingers clutching Sherlock's shoulders tightly. He really doesn’t want to interrupt, especially, seeing as these moments probably don’t happen often between the two men, but he could hear _his_ men shouting and laughing behind him.

He coughed. John jumped, but Sherlock didn’t move an inch. His fingers ran gently over his Omega’s abdomen with reverence, eyes locked onto John’s, whose cheeks began to flush a brilliant red.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, tearing himself away. Sherlock’s lips twitched in disdain and he pulled his Omega against him, fingers dancing along his back. He was saying something in his ear—too low for Lestrade to hear. John’s face went livid for a moment before he forced the man back.

His team walked in, carrying the necessary equipment.

“You’re not going to safely recover the evidence like that,” Sherlock sneered immediately, as if he hadn’t just shared whatever the fuck that was with his Omega. His _pregnant_ Omega. Jesus Christ. John looked like he didn’t know what to do with himself, and Lestrade sighed and got to work.

 

* * *

 

John staggered back from the embrace, anger orbiting around him. He opened his mouth to rebuke Sherlock, but then he was addressing the Yard and ignoring him. God damn it, this was not how things went.

 _“Why must you be so afraid? Let them see, John. Let them who you belong to.“_ It had sounded strangled, like it was wrenched from his lips.

It was also ridiculously possessive and even more irritating because Sherlock has turned to show the Yard’s team where precisely to break the wall. They did so, and the following gunshot went off beside one of men peeling off plaster, just missing his ear. All but Sherlock jumped and swore.

"Hm. As expected."

" _What_?” Lestrade’s left eyebrow was twitching. “Sherlock you need to tell us if something is going to happen!"

“It was just a hunch. It was obvious the gun would shoot.”

“You’re damn lucky no one was standing in front of it! Hunch or no—”

John tried to drown out the sound of their voices The Omega ran his fingers through thin blonde strands and took a look at the female again. Much like himself, in _that_ one way.

It made the Omega flush just thinking about it. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t dealt with enough pregnant women and some men, considering he was a doctor, even one of military standing, but when referring to himself he felt completely different, like he was stumbling in the dark. For instance, John knew he needed a check up. He knew the basis of pregnancy, what to avoid, and what to keep up with, but his mind was deciding it wanted to forgo the information and shut down whenever he thought about it.

John wished desperately he could give himself check ups. It was bloody impossible to stick the probe in himself far enough, let alone acquire the right equipment, set it up, and use it all at once. These uncomfortable exams were usually done on the cusp of Heat, or through a chemically induced Heat, generally shorter than usual, fading in a few hours. It was downright embarrassing when he went, and he preferred to go through the chemically induced Heat, bearing the few hours of agony for a clean slate.

John focused his attentions on the woman. He tried opening his mind like Sherlock, squinting in hopes of seeing more than just someone on the floor, shot. There was a ring on her finger. Married? He hair was straight—now coloured thickly with blood. Her dress was a warm jumper and simple plaid skirt, adorned by heels. She looked a bit ridiculous; one of those new styles where the girl looks like a doll with an oversized shirt. She was quite pretty and young. Too young.

How did they get here? How the hell did Sherlock even get anything out of this? A warm palm settled on John’s neck and he inhaled sharply, hairs standing on end.

“Very good.” His finger slipped to the edge of the jumper’s collar that he wore, brushing the skin carefully. “I see you’ve noticed her age. Look at the lot of them—all barely out of university. Now, who would lead a group of young, impressionable students to this place, only to murder them seconds later?”

His breath was warm on the back of John’s neck, and very distracting. He _almost_ forgot his behavior.

“Why don’t you tell me?” he ground out, standing up to better look at the young men. All of them were uniquely fashioned in a way John would never understand. He frowned at the bodies, shifting away from Sherlock’s touch. The Alpha’s answering frown was unbeknownst to John, who was distracted when Lestrade came into view.

“What doesn’t add up,” Lestrade mentioned conclusively, “is position of these bodies—look; they’re all spread out across the floor, but theoretically, even with that contraption up there, they’d could only have been killed in one spot. And wouldn’t one of the other’s see what had happened? One gun, three bullets in three brains, but with an impossible gateway to that result. It just doesn’t add up.”

Lestrade was frowning, scratching at his greying hair. John shifted closer to the fellow Omega and looked at Sherlock. His expression was intent. He knelt by one of the males, hovering over his forehead. He wanted to touch, obviously, but Lestrade coughed loudly and the Alpha frowned.

“They’re all Alphas.”

Lestrade frowned. “We know one of them’s an Alpha, but how do you know the other two—”

“Look at their clothing! The woman is dressed to be “cute,” but her make-up and her hair suggest dominance. She’s tall, and yet wearing heels. Obviously wants to be noticed. She may smell like an Omega—it’s faint—but that’s not unusual for bonded. Assuming she is an Omega bonded, where is her bite? We can therefore conclude that between the mixture of Omega and Alpha, she is undoubtedly Alpha. The same with the other. He isn’t what an Omega typically looks like, and he also smells of Alpha-Omega.”

Sherlock blinked, taking a whiff. “I take back what I said. Not just any Omega, the same Omega.” He frowned. “All three of them. It’s faint, but they all smell similar. Why?” Sherlock was verbose at the best of times, skipping around the bodies, as if he couldn't quite get to them fast enough and absorb the pertinent information. “No, no,” he muttered, hand striking the air as if to wave away an idea. He looked at John and his frown deepened.

“There must be something. All of them are dressed casually, but with a certain perfection to their outfits. They came here for a reason, but why?” Running a few theories, Sherlock moved back and took a deep breath. He cast another glance at John, who gazed at him in helpless awe, and made a sound of discontent.

“We’re leaving,” he announced, grabbing John’s arm. “I’ll text you anything I find out.” Lestrade was dubious, but he let Sherlock go because their forensics team needed a chance to gather any finishing touches.

Sherlock’s grip was warm, but tight. Assuring. He led a stumbling John around and out of the empty house, stride just fast enough that John was having some trouble keeping up.

‘Will you—will you bloody slow down?” he hissed, jerking his arm back. The loss of warmth was a strangely unpleasant sensation, and John rubbed his thumb against their previous point of contact, stomach curling uncomfortably. Sherlock was staring steadily ahead, fingers twitching by his side in patterns and rhythms beyond John’s comprehension. He looked distraught—maybe missing facts in the case was annoying him.

John didn’t mind complimenting him, if it made him stop his inconsistent behavior and get done with this case faster. “I honestly can’t believe you got anything out of that in the first place. I looked and really couldn’t see anything. It’s fantastic, the way you know these things. Lestrade will find out the rest—”

John grunted as he found himself backed against the wall of the building, hot breath huffing over his lips. Sherlock’s eyes were ablaze, fingers tightening on John’s triceps.

“You. Are. Distracting. Me,” he ground out.

John glared. What the _hell_ was his problem? He’d been trying to compliment him, staying out of his way, letting him do his thing. He was still _starving_ and he hadn’t said a word. “ _I’m_ a distraction? Oh, I’m sorry that you forced me to come along on this _interesting_ little adventure. I’m _sorry_ that my presence is that grating.”

John pressed his lips into a thin line. It was unfair of Sherlock to try and put all this blame on him when he was really only here because—

Halting that train of thought, John huffed a sigh, peering into Sherlock’s curls. It was both of their faults, and no one’s at the same time. Things happened. John had chosen this path, and he couldn’t very well go back now. It just... didn’t seem real yet. He certainly didn’t _feel_ pregnant.

“I’m sorry I’m such a distraction,” John said with some leftover bitterness, shoulders sagging with his evident surrender.

Sherlock made a sound. “I can’t— I can’t think.” John opened his mouth to protest, nearly laughing at the prospect of Sherlock _not thinking_ , but he was interrupted. “You keep distracting me. You’re scent is all I can seem to sense. I want to stop everything when I look at you. I want to. Breathe you in, and—”

He buried his face in John’s neck, grip tightening automatically to pull him closer. It was strange how John seemed to be able to reduce him to a laconic state, unable to form proper sentences. It was both flattering and disconcerting. This was the bond talking. His scent, and the knowledge that he was having a baby set him off. John wasn’t really the reason, and he felt disappointed. He shouldn’t, but he did.

Sherlock shifted, and John’s brain went on temporary shut-down when he felt Sherlock’s very distinct, very hard cock press into his thigh. _Jesus fuck._ Red colored John’s cheeks. _That_ was what he meant by distracting? “Sherlock, really?” he hissed, trying not to acknowledge his own growing interest.

“Do you have any idea what you smell like?” Sherlock’s nose ran up the length of his neck, fingers tickling the nape. “I have never felt so little control before. It’s driving me utterly mad.” Sherlock sounded angry, taking a moment to nip harshly at John’s neck. The Omega’s breath hitched, cock twitching with a decisive, sweet throb.

“Now is _not_ the time, Sherlock. Come on, off.” He was doing this now, and they were still outside. Jesus Christ.

With a short growl, Sherlock inhaled deeply, bringing John even closer. John got a whiff of Sherlock’s own unique scent, smelling decidedly delicious—statistics would say due to the pregnancy. Sherlock was secreting his own formula, made to keep John happy and horny, whilst aiding in properly developing the baby’s growth.

It was, unfortunately, working. John squirmed against Sherlock, hardening quickly and without mercy. Damn it. He released a tiny, wrecked moan when Sherlock licked a long stripe up his jugular, shivering. 

“I’ve been wanting you for ages,” Sherlock hissed, leaving hot, open mouth kisses up his neck and jawline, quickly traveling towards his mouth. “You have no idea.” If John thought he sounded possessive before, this was a completely new level.

Sherlock latched onto his mouth with abandon, licking his way inside the Omega, leaning to taste him as deeply as possible. John’s head pressed into the cool brick behind him. He gripped his shoulders and somewhat awkwardly returned the kiss, still fairly surprised by the whole thing, but not enough to stop. 

Honestly, he didn’t think he could. It was affirmed when Sherlock took a handful of his arse and John unconsciously grinded onto Sherlock’s left thigh. In response, Sherlock tried to _devour_ him, dragging obscene noises from John. Normally John would never stand for being taken down so thoroughly, but it had been a fucking long time since he’d last shagged (aside from his Heat).

When the Alpha pulled away, looking just as dazed and kiss-swollen as John no doubt did, John breathed out the first thing that came to mind.

“What the hell,” he exploded, ignoring how good that felt. “You can’t—you just can’t _kiss_ people whenever you feel. I bloody well wasn’t ready for it.” He wiped his mouth, lips throbbing in a slight mixture of pleasure and pain. Now he had a hard-on that could cut diamonds, and his stomach churned with unease. He glared at Sherlock, who returned his look with an irritated snort of his own.

“When will you be ready then, John? When you’ve finally gotten over your latent homophobia?” Sherlock spat. “Or perhaps once you find a new god that has the right rules that adhere to your principles again. Then you can hide all you want! Maybe you won’t even show in your pregnancy. Maybe you can avoid thinking about it and make it all go away. Stop being afraid, John. It’s incredibly annoying, and increasingly pointless.”

The unease that had been sitting, stale, inside of John bubbled up as anger overturned any arousal he felt in that moment. He grit his teeth, aware that this was not the place nor the time, but it needed to be done. How dare Sherlock make such accusations when he was trying—honestly trying—to make do with this and the Alpha was doing whatever the hell he wanted. As a reflex to his mounting temper, John lifted himself to his full height and raised his fist, connecting with Sherlock, right in the jaw.

The sight of Sherlock’s head whipping back as he was hit was strangely satisfying to the soldier dormant in John. So was the pain that started to spread up from his hand.

The Alpha blinked wildly, pressing a few fingers to the smarting skin. He couldn’t seem to form sentences in his shock.

“You fucking— “ he breathed, anger choking him. “You fucking prick. You’re seriously saying that? Now? You’re saying that, after everything that’s happened?” He could feel the bond quiver with his anger, stronger, but not enough. John knew he needed to be careful, but couldn’t stop himself.

“I didn’t want this. Are you listening to me _this_ time, Sherlock?” It was a _low_ blow. Neither of them had been able to control themselves in Heat. “I could have—Jesus, I should have gotten rid of this. I’m not ready for a kid! I’m not— I don’t even know what the hell I should be doing.” He was breathing hard, practically shouting. Someone was bound to come out and see what was going on.

“I’m fucking pregnant, and I can’t even tell if you actually care at all aside from your instincts. I barely even know who you are. It’s normal for me to feel out of my depth. I’m trying to find stable ground and—Jesus, you’re. Not. Helping.”

When John was done with that, he went to take a deep, liberating breath, but found he couldn’t. His throat was still stuck with all his pent up emotions, and pressed his palm there, trying to feel for something keeping him from breathing. He could hear a pulsing, harsh sound and realized too late it was his own breathing, becoming more grating by the minute. He couldn’t _breathe_. His vision was going fuzzy, like static. _Oh, hell._ He leaned against the wall, a hand pressing against the wall, fingers rasping on the surface as he sought something solid to hold on to.

“Panic attack. _Why_ are you having a panic attack?” Sherlock sounded increasingly anxious and, hell, _afraid_ for the first time since John’s Heat, and he knelt by John, who had doubled over. “John, I—” His expression had crumpled somewhat, and it seemed that John’s speech had brought some clearance. Clearly he could not be as insensitive to John’s feelings as he had been [John would need to do the same. It had to be a “team effort”]. Their bond was already rickety, and they hadn’t even affirmed it yet [John’s too afraid, can’t, _can’t_ touch him because he’s _afraid_ —]. They were both idiots who were now in this together; Sherlock needed to help, rather than hinder.

Reigning in his own rising panic, Sherlock tried to channel John’s erratic feelings and connect with his own; he wrapped a careful arm around the Omega and breathed deeply. “Breathe. Breathe with me, John,” he demanded, lowering his voice to keep the man calm. Damn it.

For John, everything was a rush of sound. He couldn’t really hear over the steady beat of his own pulse, his ragged breath roaring in his ears. It was only when he noticed the hand settled on his back, warmth seeping into his skin from another’s palm, and a comforting, familiar scent, that he could finally take in air.

John breathed deeply for some moments. “—'orry." He croaked, dizzy. "Sorry.”

“You had a panic attack.” The Alpha sounded strangely subdued, hands fluttering over John as he stood up. His jaw still stung something awful. He hadn’t expected that from John. He hadn’t really expected John at all.

A gloved hand settled on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“My apologies for the interruption, but you both are causing quite the spectacle.” Sherlock jerked away from Mycroft’s touch, turning to assess his brother with great surprise [he’d been so focused on John]. “The car awaits, if you should be so inclined.”

“Mycroft—” Sherlock started, but there were people looking at them, men from the Yard who’d come outside to see the domestic. Some of them looked too pleased to see John shout at Sherlock [it was disconcerting, not knowing how much they had heard].

“Who?” John was staring at Mycroft in shock, glance shifting suspiciously to Sherlock [he was considering he might be in trouble with the government. Not a far cry]. The Alpha merely pushed the still-distraught Omega towards the car while Mycroft moved in the opposite direction. They watched him approach Lestrade, and then lean down to kiss him on the cheek, offering a placid smile.

“He’s trying to make peace with Lestrade. He’s been out of the country for the last week. Normally he would never lay his claim so obviously.”

John’s eyes widened. So that was what he had been smelling. Something so Lestrade and…Mycrock, was it? mixed together. He watched Lestrade’s expression harden and he ground out something neither of them could hear. After sharing a few terse words, Mycroft doing his best to look apologetic, he came back and slid into the car next to them.

An incredibly awkward silence reigned for a few minutes as the car turned onto the road.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted suddenly, reaching across the to offer his hand. Sherlock snapped at the air, but Mycroft didn’t even blink. John stared at his hand for a moment, puzzled and honestly lost on everything that had just happened. He took his hand anyway—a firm, delicate shake, neither too loose nor too tight.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I would have offered my congratulations much sooner, but I was rather detained.”

“Can’t even take care of your own Omega so you ran out of the country?”

Mycroft examined his nails. “You would know about that, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock’s jaw clenched.

John blinked, the tension obvious. It made him uneasy; he shifted in his seat. “Who are you, exactly?” John again shifted—closer to Sherlock unconsciously—feeling out of sorts, and only somewhat put together because Sherlock—his Alpha—was near.

“Oh, how rude of me.” An insincere smile. “Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure. I’ve been hoping to meet you for quite some time.”

John blinked. _Shit_. When did Sherlock get a brother? And his brother was Lestrade’s Alpha? His mind was spinning.

“Um, hello. It’s. Nice to meet you, too, then.” A hand planted itself on his abdomen out of habit, and his thumb rubbed rhythmically, as if he might rub away some of the unease that had settled in the pit of his stomach. Mycroft’s eyes flickered there briefly before turning to Sherlock.

“Sherlock. I see you’ve been... busy.” He managed to place as much distaste as possible on the single word. “However, we are long past due to have a chat. I was hoping the two of you would be capable of taking care of yourselves at the very least, but I can see that is not the case. Don’t look at me like that, brother, you know it’s true. If you spent half your time thinking about what actually needed to be done, you wouldn’t be struggling with this case. Surely you’ve found what university the three victims attended?”

A snarl. "How's your health? Have you been devouring your secret stores of chocolate while you were away in," Sherlock paused. "Beijing? Lestrade would be appalled."

Mycroft merely smiled, unperturbed other than the small twitch of his left eye. Sherlock seemed pleased by the minute reaction. "I'll have you know there are plenty of medicinal delicacies in Beijing."

The drive continued with it's awkward gait all the way until they reached 221b. Mycroft insisted on his staying so he might “speak with the two of them about matters of importance,” sending John a significant glance.

Once they were safely inside Baker Street, John asked Sherlock if he had a kettle and some tea leaves. His answer was an annoyed grunt, and when he inspected the fridge, he whistled. “You have absolutely nothing. Is that even edible in there?”

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock answered.

Mycroft looked pained. “This is what I have come to talk to you about. Dear brother, you can’t seriously expect to raise a child and house a pregnant Omega in this... flat.” The word ‘hovel’ was heavily implied, and John would never know how he put so much disgust into one word.

“I simply can’t condone this sort of behavior. Look at the state of your flat." Mycroft’s hand flicked in a sweeping gesture as he spoke. True, it wasn’t exactly the _cleanest._ Sherlock looked around, frowning. Various tubes and papers littered the flat—notes unfinished or moments of brilliance Sherlock _had_ to have written down. There were plates sitting on the table next to his work, and a beaker containing some sort of chemical precariously close to the edge of the table. A few petri dishes that made John feel nauseous sat next to the sink. Mycroft raised a brow, and John had to admit it was pretty awful.

“We’ll clean up,” John said quickly, a bit defensive. Yes, it was horrible, but it was also his Alpha’s home and another Alpha was disparaging it with acerbic grace. Really, if it were clean it would be quite lovely.

“Is that your underwear?” Mycroft asked Sherlock, bemused. He pointed to the bundle on the right side of the sofa Sherlock sat in. It was black. Sherlock yanked it up and stalked to his room, huffing all the way. He really couldn’t deny what was being said; he didn’t want to look any worse in front of his brother than he already did, as much as it infuriated him.

Mycroft watched him leave before turning to his Omega. “John, come. Have a seat.” With Sherlock out of the room, John was at Mycroft’s mercy and couldn’t hover by the kitchen anymore. He swallowed resolutely and sat down, keeping his expression carefully blank. Again, Mycroft seemed amused by this.

“So. You’ve decided to return, after causing considerable heartache in regards to Sherlock.” Mycroft rested his elbows on his knees in a strangely graceless display, chin on his knuckles. His gaze was sharp, curious. John felt the familiar sweep of his eyes, much like what Sherlock did, but somehow more intense, intrusive. _Shit._ “What are you playing at, Doctor Watson?”

John lifted himself up somewhat, anger sparking. He wanted to remind him that Sherlock had been the one to impregnate him, and that he wasn’t the one being an arse, but knew now wasn’t the time. Still, he scowled before answering, “I don’t really know.” It was shockingly honest, and Mycroft raised a brow, sitting back up. “I... still haven’t quite figured out what to do with myself—us. I know what the situation calls for, but as for everything else , I’ve never felt so... ”

“Lost?” Mycroft offered. John nodded reluctantly, scrubbing his face with his hands. With a warmer smile, Mycroft stood up from his seat. Everything he needed to know had been ascertained, and Sherlock would only tolerate him for another ten minutes. “I’d like to offer my help, John. May I call you John? After all, you are practically family.” His smile was razor sharp, almost feral.

 _Jesus,_ John realized. _He’s protective of Sherlock._ “Um.”

Mycroft raised another brow in acknowledgment. “I care deeply for Sherlock. We wouldn’t want to hurt him, now would we?” He moved closer, pressing a hand to John’s shoulder. John’s heart rate spiked. “I know you have your doubts, John, but let’s make sure we get that sorted out, hm?”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarled, moving towards them from the hallway, defensive of his Omega who clearly felt threatened. Family or not, he would not stand for it, and especially not within his territory. Mycroft dutifully dropped his hand and looked towards the door.

“Now! About that life growing inside of you. I was made aware that you have not made any appointments with a physician, and you are hitting the five week mark, are you not?” He received a terse, agitated nod. Sherlock plopped down next to down, eyes narrowed. “This cannot be allowed to continue. You must take proper care of your body. Who’s to know what might happen? I can recommend a renowned doctor to you both, very attentive and completely trustworthy. Discretion will not be a concern.”

Honestly, it was hardly something to think over. The obvious answer would be yes, but he could practically feel Sherlock vibrating next to him. He didn’t know if they were always this tense with each other, but he could understand. To think, Mycroft was taking better care of his Omega than _he_ was.

Before he could answer, Mycroft was moving. “I will have my assistant send a car tomorrow. Only the best for my brother’s future child.” He glanced at his wrist. “Shall we say, eight o’clock?”

Sherlock stood up as well. “I don’t need _your_ help. I’m perfectly capable on my own.”John knew Sherlock was only defending his territory, but John would rather whatever private, no doubt expensive doctor Mycroft would provide, than something more public and embarrassing, or whatever Sherlock determined to be sufficient.

Ignoring Sherlock, John attempted to appear more grateful than somewhat intimidated and affronted—something he really couldn’t help. He _was_ grateful—Mycroft was taking some charge, but he almost felt like a child being coddled because it was incapable of taking care of itself. As soon as Mycroft left, there were going to be some ground rules. “Thank you, for this. I know it’s not—”

Mycroft held up a hand. “Hardly worth any thanks. I will see you again soon.” Then he was out the door, and John was left alone with Sherlock. His stomach took that moment to remind him he was _starving_.

Sherlock tilted his head, scowl slowly turning into something resembling a smile. “How do you feel about Chinese?”

 

* * *

 

Now that they had ordered in, and John was intently eating his Chinese food (groan), they could address what needed to be done.

“All right,” John began with his mouth half-full of spring roll. “First things first; this whole place needs to be cleaned.” He pointed to Sherlock. “You need to remove all of your disgusting experiments off the tables and into the bin, or somewhere else. Anywhere but here.” Being in charge of something felt good. It had been too long since he’d had control over something in his life.

Sherlock scoffed. “Most of those “disgusting” experiments are time sensitive. I don’t expect you to understand how delicate the process is.”

John continued to look unimpressed. "You haven't _touched_ them. There's mould growing on the mould. And what the hell is in your sink?"

"To be honest I'm not quite sure. It was a development that I found curious—"

"Move it, or I will."

"You're being unreasonable, John."

John leaned forward after shoving some Chinese viciously into his mouth. " _I'm_ being unreasonable?” A short laugh. “Sherlock,” he began seriously. “Are you sure you want this kid?” The Alpha’s eyes widened and he nodded emphatically, before a scowl took hold of his features.

“That’s unfair,” he rumbled.

John smirked. “We’ll split this into two jobs when I’m done eating, seeing as you refuse to eat. How anyone lives off of so little food, I’ll never know. Did you eat yesterday? Nevermind, you don’t have any food in your fridge.” John felt strangely... good about this. They hadn’t talked about what had happened yet, but he felt like he’d gotten something off of his chest. Things were moving forward. _They_ were moving forward.

“I don’t eat during a case,” Sherlock announced with a sniff, before slouching for a truly magnificent sulk. “And I won’t clean. Everything is exactly where I need it.”

“Well, we all can’t be geniuses now can we?” John sounded largely placating, like one addressing an angry child, and only somewhat sarcastic. “I don’t have your brain, so I can’t keep up with everything as a giant sodding mess. You’re going to go to the supermarket, and I’m going to start cleaning.”

“Remember the case, John. There’s no time for such mundane activities. I must discover the location they—”

“Shopping,” John deadpanned.

“John!” Sherlock stood up and waved his arms in an outraged manner. “I do _not_ fetch groceries at the supermarket, and it would be unwise of you to assume you can touch _anything_ in this flat. I’ve... poisoned it all and the unique oil in my fingers is the only reason I am still alive.”

John narrowed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock found himself staring at a list. “Don’t forget the milk,” said John, pleasantly enough. He was already moving a mass of papers, scraps falling and mixing on the rug.

“You’re ruining everything,” Sherlock muttered, eyes scanning the list. “I’ve been to Tesco’s once in my life, and it is not an experience I am keen to repeat.” Despite that, he was throwing his coat on, scowl deepening every second. “I’d be much better off cleaning the flat. You’re an Omega; housewife type beings are supposed to get food and such necessities I can’t be bothered to care about. An even better idea; you could facilitate both jobs.” He smirked, all cheek.

John looked thunderous. “Don’t forget honey for the tea, either,” he said, no longer pleasant as he shoved Sherlock out the door.

Sherlock supposed what he said was out of line, but it was pleasing to see John get angry. Also, strangely arousing. Omegas were notorious for their calm, submissive nature, at least in his studies. John was the very opposite. Witnessing him order Sherlock around like he was the superior officer, knowing at the end of the day _he_ would fuck him into oblivion, was an exhilarating feeling.

Now thoroughly undistracted, Sherlock searched the name “Jerry Cruncher,” eyes riveted onto his phone’s screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this is heading somewhere. I know it seems like it keeps hitting the same walls, but I have it all planned out.
> 
> I swear I won't take this long to update either. I feel so bad, but I am swamped by school most of the time eerrrggh.


	10. What's up, Doc?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The visit to the private doctor goes exactly as John expects it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the doctor's gets a little explicit with omega biology. If you're curious or don't understand my head canons for omegaverse, send me a message or comment and I'll explain.

Sherlock stared at the displays of teas, brows furrowed.

“What does he mean by “tea”? There are ten different types of tea and three different brand names!” Sherlock grabbed the vanilla tea to give it a hard whiff. How was he to know which flavor of tea he wanted when everything he had written was so very vague? ‘Bread,’ ‘Jam,’ and ‘Meat’ made little sense when there were too many choices to consider.

Sherlock picked up the plainest of the teas, wondering if practical John preferred this type of tea. Then again, perhaps he liked chocolate, or strawberry, an excessive of which the Omega might want to venture. There were so many choices! Sherlock considered one of each, in the case that he was wrong, and then finally, frustrated, threw the list he had already memorized list to the ground and stalked toward another aisle.

“Meat,” Sherlock snorted, moving his cart in favor of something that was easier. If John wasn’t going to be specific then Sherlock would simply make the logical choice. As he strolled to the meat aisle, he flicked his phone screen, scrolling through the internet until he found ‘A Food Guide for the Expecting Omega.’

Sherlock skimmed the text until he had found what he needed, searching the shelves. He pulled various meats—all nitrate free and grown naturally—and moved on to “soft cheese.” Brie, feta, and Gorgonzola made it into the cart.

Sherlock preened as he read the text. Shopping was easy when done with proper consideration and care. Vegetables of various green kinds were thrown in without ceremony. Sherlock was a whirlwind around the store [that small child should have watched where it was going], trying to get out as soon as possible. Once the necessities were ascertained, Sherlock steeled himself and moved back to the teas, scowling at anyone who dared look at the tall, pale Alpha man in a dark coat. If he were an Omega, he wouldn’t have garnered a second glance. Sherlock sniffed. John was much more suited for everything that had to do with shopping and cleaning and taking care of _things_.

The Alpha moved to the self checkout line, not inclined to deal with _people_.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock finished scanning his groceries, paying with Mycroft’s credit card (he had provided this one himself, shockingly. “For John and any needs of the child.”), he was finally pulling his full bags and leaving the store. Now would be the perfect time for him to go to the Alpha group’s university [incredibly easy to find], but the bags were weighing him down heavily and there was no way he was about to travel that distance carrying food that would most likely need refrigeration soon.

With a huff, Sherlock hailed a cab, throwing the bags inside almost carelessly as he climbed in himself. “221b, Baker Street,” he grumbled to the driver. He would _like_ to be going to Oxford, but _someone_ was making him shop. Sherlock Holmes didn’t shop. Except for, apparently, bossy Omegas who didn’t know their place.

When Sherlock trudged up the steps off 221b, preparing a lengthy argument in his mind, beginning with the word ‘really,’ and laced in enough sarcasm to no doubt set John off, he heard a thump. Curious before he was worried, Sherlock pulled at the bags on his left, the plastic digging into his palm with its weight.

Blasted groceries. His hands weren’t made to endure this sort of horrendous torture. They were slender, long violinist hands—fit for making music, or handling delicate operations [i.e. chemicals, the decaying flesh of a mortuary patient, etcetera. Hardly the mundane for the simple-minded].

A second thump sounded and then: “fuck!”

Slightly more concerned, Sherlock threw himself up the stairs and shoved the bags down to the crook of his arm, turning the handle. When he burst inside his eyes immediately locked onto the hunched figure by the now clean table in their kitchen. John’s expression was one of wild, sudden pain and he had his palm against his still-flat abdomen.

“John!” There were no obvious wounds, so Sherlock rationally assumed there was something wrong with their child. Sherlock threw the bags down and took his Omega by the shoulders, scanning for any injuries. “What’s wrong? Do you feel any pain?”

John looked amused and would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a teeny bit flattered. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Really. I just stubbed my toe twice on your table leg.”

 _Oh_. Sherlock felt foolish, an unaccustomed feeling. His face flushed indignantly. John stared, obviously trying not to chuckle. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s only—”

“‘Logical’ that you worry. Yes, I get it. It’s those Alpha hormones.” Sherlock took a careful step back and regarded the man. Instead of snapping, he seemed much more calm, and the flat was obviously more clean. John had even moved his experiments to one side of the kitchen, just in case Sherlock was serious about needing them. The mass in the sink, however, was gone.

“Would you believe me if I told you that would have saved a man’s life?” Sherlock asked, pointing. John froze, struggling to see if he was lying or not. Sherlock’s lips twitched up the slightest bit, a certain look in his eye, and John relaxed.

“Wanker.” He looked at what Sherlock had brought with him, absentmindedly running his palm over his abdomen. “What— how many types of teas did you buy?” John held up the Raspberry and Vanilla teas, pulling a face.

“They have an intriguing variety,” Sherlock defended, a smile quirking over his lips. “I thought you might appreciate a little bit of spice in your droll life as a priest.”

Something sobered in John’s expression as he set down the strange teas gingerly. “About that.” Sherlock tensed. John didn’t notice as he stared at another packet he had pulled from the bag. Chocolate tea. His lips turned up and he stroked the tea cup on the cover with his thumb. “I’m going to need to go back, you know. Not for good, probably not,” he said, sensing rather than seeing Sherlock’s distress. “I can't very well be a priest anymore and I need to formally give up my position. I need to tell them and face those people; let them know what’s going on. Then we can come back and... that’s that.” _For now._

Sherlock could hear the regret and pain from a life lost to his own hateful desires. He understood what he was going through, but didn’t understand the emotions. It meant little to him, other than the fact that John was distressed by it. Surely his little townspeople would accept the Omega who had led them against anti-religious sacrilege for so long? The thought of John becoming hurt by such ridiculously unimportant people, that they even had the power to touch his fragile heart, was unsettling.

When he glanced up, Sherlock realized John was talking again. "You said we," he interrupted. John did a marvelous job keeping his face neutral when he was usually so expressive. "You want the man who led to your supposed ruin to accompany you to an extremely religious, predominantly homophobic _village_ , to admit you can't live life you once did because of our liaison."

"You really put things in a bad way, don't you," John snapped.

"Would you like me to put it in a good way?" Sherlock retorted. "Facts are facts and no amount of fluff will change that." John's expression shuttered and he breathed to control himself. No doubt he was about to snap and storm off, as he was prone.

John took a deep, _deep_ breath. _He's just doing that thing he does. Sherlock is just an idiot Alpha like the rest of them who won't admit he's bloody afraid._

"Right. They're going to love you." John took a moment to savor his Alpha's shock.

 

* * *

 

"H-how did you—" John tried to stifle his laughter.

"You're the one who needs to eat and this is, at the very least, edible."

John touched the end of a burnt noodle. "If this is what you call edible then I have no idea how you've survived this far."

Sherlock leaned over him and batted his hands away, obstinately deciding to finish the noodles, at least. "Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft always furnished my needs, or there was take out."

"That's not healthy," John said on reflex.

"You're hardly one to say. Must we visit those self-destructive habits of yours?" Sherlock pressed his shoulder to John's gently.

"Sod off," he smiled, pushing back with his shoulder. They leaned against each other as Sherlock moved his failed attempt to cook spaghetti. His hand glided across John's back to curl around his waist. John tensed, but didn't pull away, focusing only on throwing out the ruined dish before him with exaggerate disgust. Sherlock’s hand was warm.

"You've eaten worse in Afghanistan," Sherlock murmured close to his ear. If it affected John, he didn't show it. When John turned to move, Sherlock caught his face gently in his hand.

He waited, thumb brushing against John's jaw, allowing him time to adjust. If John wasn't okay with it, he only had to say. Sherlock kept his fingers gentle, brushing the lines of John's face until they cleared when John smiled. All was silent until John finally grew tired of the waiting game, quiet anticipation transforming into eager agitation.

"Just kiss me, for fuck's sake." Sherlock could only smile for a split second, pulled down into a hard embrace, of which the Alpha immediately took control. He wanted to allow John to enjoy it, the option of pulling away readily available, but he was not about to be dominated.

He began with an exchange of soft but firm kisses. Sherlock cupped John's face with both hands and caressed his lips with a gentle tug and pull, varying in pressure and length. John shuddered when Sherlock bit his lower lip; satisfaction curled within the Alpha and he sought to deepen their connection.

When he pulled away John was flushed and his hair was disheveled from where Sherlock's fingers had teased it. A soft rumble of content and Sherlock was pulling away, giving him space.

"Can you cook?" he asked, licking the taste of John off of his lips. John recovered himself and moved Sherlock aside, his smile soft.

"Shove off, pretty boy."

 

* * *

 

Once the new batch of spaghetti was made, John ate ravenously and Sherlock very little.

"You do know that you do need to eat eventually," he mentioned as he scarfed down his second plate. Christ, he was hungry.

Sherlock took a lilliputian-sized bite to show how very much he cared.

"Eat," John ordered, waving his fork at his food.

"I don't eat when I'm a case."

John answered with a raised brow and the slurp of noodles. "Then what did you just do?"

"Responded to the pressure put against my will. I've never had a partner who was so consumed with the notion that I must eat." He peered curiously at John from under his lashes.

"Right, I've got a food fetish and you refuse to eat," he chuckled. "At this rate we'll destroy each other." That earned a smile from Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

The bed was something he hadn’t been anticipating. It wasn't worth worrying about, but when Sherlock pulled his arm questioningly, eyes flickering towards the bedroom, John thought it might be a little strange. Might as well give it a shot.

Sherlock didn’t linger, easing the pressure off of John when he went to his room by himself. John took his own time in the guest room, brushing off the day’s anxieties with routine. He undressed and redressed into comfortable pajamas he had brought (he noted his supply of clean clothing was dwindling. He’d need to have a word with Sherlock about the cleaning), and took his time in the loo. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen yet, and it was for the best John decided. His usually overwhelming presence was absent, but his scent remained.

Finished with preparation, John made his way to his flatmate(?)’s bedroom. Sherlock was inside and already on the bed, the covers half-hazardly thrown across his body.

“I don’t normally indulge in sleep a case. Not frequently, anyway,” he said as greeting. John gave an awkward climb onto the bed, hands fluttering. It was a bit small: where the hell did he put them in this situation?

“So you’ve mentioned.” John’s voice was soft. He wasn’t sure if he should sit by the bed as he usually would when praying, and couldn’t find it in himself to ask. Eventually, Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured to the floor. John nodded and settled as he usually would, clasping his hands loosely. There was proper procedure, but he felt more comfortable this way. His lips moved softly to the prayer in his head, and he felt his burdens lighten just the slightest bit.

Sherlock watched him without shame. “Why do you pray?” John tried not to grit his teeth at the interruption. He sounded truly curious; John wouldn’t mind indulging it. For now.

“Because it makes me happy,” he answered truthfully, feeling as though that truth was skewed. Maybe his faith was struggling, and he wasn’t sure where he was anymore, but it felt calming to delve into ritual. He enjoyed this connection to solid ground. After that, Sherlock said nothing more. He watched John, huffing a sigh every so often, until John finally finished. He followed Sherlock’s example and slipped under the covers, careful not to touch Sherlock. Not yet.

Silence echoed uncomfortably between them.

“I’ve said previously that I don’t _eat_ on a case. I _mentioned_ nothing about sleeping.” 

"What?" 

"You said 'so you've mentioned'. I mentioned nothing of the kind."

It took John a second to remember; a sort of mad giggle escaped him when he did. “This is weird,” John blurted, shifting deeper under the covers. They were saturated in Sherlock’s scent— it was pretty amazing, actually. John wondered how many times he washed them. He tried not to dwell on it.

“Indescribably,” Sherlock drawled. He relaxed marginally. “Shove over for a bit.” He flipped onto his back in a flurry of limbs, nearly knocking his elbow into John’s head. After some situating, they managed to get semi-comfortable. Now that he wasn’t half asleep, John wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He placed his hands on his abdomen, more due to lack of a better place than anything, but soon the comforting rubbing of his thumbs across the soft skin soothed him. He remained tense for some time, and found it easier to slip into sleep when he wasn’t thinking about anything and let it all just happen.

He breathed in the pervading scent and looked inside himself, trying to feel for their bond. It wasn’t exactly tangible, but it was... it was hard to describe. Sort of like he could feel it, but it was more like he became aware or something that was always there when he _focused_ on it. Their connection was still tentative and repairing gradually, but it might get there. They wouldn’t be okay for a long time, John suspected. It was all fine. They had loads of time.

 

* * *

 

The situation was eerily familiar, John decided, when he opened his eyes. He was surrounded by heat and his Alpha's scent saturated the very air he breathed. He wasn't exactly sure he liked it. A whiff of perfume that smelled pleasant was actually quite awful when you could nearly taste it. John swallowed. He felt a bit nauseous, actually. A bit crampy, too. He didn't want to acknowledge that though, and studiously ignored the feeling, hoping it would go away soon. He licked chapped lips and flexed his fingers, which had been half clutching Sherlock's shirt. 

Speaking of him, Sherlock had all but trapped him; his back faced the edge of the bed and he was caged in a loose hold. John could feel Sherlock's breath wash over his forehead. He tried not to move very much, as his stomach gave a slight twinge. He'd been aching there for a while now, and chocked it up to a symptom of pregnancy. He knew some pregnant Omegas and especially betas could be prone to aches while the uterus was growing.

That was going to be absolute shit later.

Letting out his breath slowly, John forced himself to relax. His shoulders dropped and he carefully leaned against Sherlock's broad chest, his chin having nowhere to go but over Sherlock’s shoulder. It was almost too easy to turn his head into the crook of his neck, slowly beating away the nausea. There. That wasn’t too bad...

John jumped when he heard someone knocking on their door. Still half in a groggy state, he hadn’t the faintest idea who it might be. It was only when Sherlock groaned and tightened his grip on John, spitting out “Mycroft” that he realised.

 _Oh please, no._. And his breath, though not horrible, wasn't tasteful. It triggered what he'd been fighting back and John convulsed, wrestling his way out of Sherlock's arms. He jerked away from the hesitant hand on his shoulder and made a mad dash for the bathroom.

"John? John!" He was yanking the lid up when Sherlock hopped out of bed. The sound of retching met his ears. Sherlock winced.

"Morning sickness?" He offered, hesitant to reach out and rub the Omega's back. Eventually Sherlock pressed his hand there, moving it in awkwardly soothing circles. He'd hope one of the symptoms of pregnancy of which he was aware would have skipped past John.

"It's too fucking early for this," John groaned. His nose had been more sensitive to scents, but he hadn’t expected to feel so sick all of a sudden.

The cool seat of the toilet felt like heaven on his overheated skin. Sherlock hovered above him, and eventually he waved him away. “‘S fine,” he slurred. Sleep sounded lovely right now. “Get dressed and answer the door.” He really, _really_ hoped that was going to be it. Some Omegas experienced nausea throughout the day, leaving them incapable of leaving their own house, at its worst. Every scent would set them off, dry heaving, unable to keep down more than bread and some soft foods.

John swallowed heavily once more and heaved himself up, feeling a little shaky for a couple of seconds. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and then went to get dressed.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock and a woman were waiting for him in the living room. A pretty brunette, she barely glanced up from her Blackberry. Sherlock was the one to stand and look like he wanted to ask how he was, but refrained when John scowled at him. He was not going to let this morning sickness beat him. Furthermore, it was a little awkward having Sherlock, of all people, hover, but not bad. It was kind of nice, in an unnerving way. His gaze was so focused, it was a bit creepy.

“So, you’re Mycroft’s...?”

“P.A.,” she answered, cool and smooth.

“Ah. What’s your name?” Her eyes flickered his way, assessing, and he had no doubt that she was some kind of secret spy. Sherlock leaned in to give him a conspiratorial glance, one arm resting loosely over his knee.

“Her name is Anthea, cultivated exactly to Mycroft’s odious tastes. I haven’t discovered her real name.” John smiled at the thought of Sherlock being outsmarted by Mycroft’s supposed P.A., and inhaled a nice, heady whiff of his scent, which caused something to occur to him. He whipped his head to look at ‘Anthea,’ trying to suss her out by scent. _She isn’t giving off a scent,_ he realised, blinking. He didn’t even know what her dynamic was, which freaked him out a little. Her lips quirked and she stood up with a definitive sway to her hips that spelled ‘danger.’

Definitely an Omega.

John smiled, eased somewhat, and stood up to follow her to the (it shouldn’t be surprising, he realised) unmarked black car that also spelled ‘money.’ He was about to suggest a cab instead, but Sherlock was soon shoving him inside, eyes cast around for any untold danger. They piled in the spacious car easily, Anthea on John’s left and Sherlock on his right. He felt a little caged, but the subtle brush of fingers against his knuckles kept him quiet. Maybe Sherlock needed this more than he did. Afterall, he didn’t quite understand how Alphas worked during this whole thing. He had worried about Omegas for so long, that he hadn’t given the other thought. They had always been so untouchable.

Letting his fingers curl gently around Sherlock’s, he realized he might be wrong.

The warmth that filled his being was soon doused by the cool atmosphere of the Alpha and possible-Omega on either side of John. He glanced at them from out of the corner of his eye, and curious to know how long they had known each other. Mycroft certainly seemed to trust her, if he was letting her come alone, and Sherlock didn’t complain once (but maybe that was due to him acknowledging the inevitable). John swallowed and stared in his lap until the car came to the smoothest stop John had felt in possibly his entire life (he really wanted this car. Maybe Mycroft would let him borrow it, being family and all).

Sherlock pulled him out quickly, nearly causing him to stumble. John punched him in the shoulder, an activity he was finding was actually quite a bit of fun. He should do it more often.

Sherlock did not find it nearly as funny and sent him a particularly murderous glare. John’s smile was malicious as he entered the small office. It barely looked like a medical office if he was being honest. It was a bit like an old ladies’ home. On inspection, the inside revealed white walls with comfortable portraits adorning them, hovering over very comfortable looking sofas. John sat down in the nearest cream-colored sofa and brushing away the leaves of a particularly bushy potted plant when a man with a clipboard came out. He did not seem surprised by their presence, but smiled sincerely at Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock spat. He was vibrating with nervous energy. “We are your only appointments today; my brother would never allow otherwise.”

The assistant, or whatever he was, merely batted an eyelash and plastered a smile onto his face. “Right this way.”

John rolled his eyes, hands shaking slightly as well, despite himself, and followed the man. Sherlock hovered just behind him, scowling at Anthea when she ventured too close.

The walk was slightly awkward and John tried not to be squished between Anthea and Sherlock again. What was with them? At one point, Sherlock decided to break the silence with something completely unhelpful.

“I hardly see the point of this. I’m sure it wouldn’t be too difficult to learn the proper procedure to ‘check up’ on a pregnant Omega. You’re meticulous and healthy." He was probably just to be difficult.

Sherlock's hand caught the door and he held it open for John, who looked baffled. “What on earth are you saying?” was all he deigned necessary in reply, and stepped into the small examination room. Anthea seated herself outside the door with ease into a nicely padded chair, and Sherlock followed John with a roll of his eye.

A man—beta, Sherlock classified immediately—greeted them when he entered. “Hello. I’m Dr. Barns. Lovely to meet you. If you would have a seat for me, Mr. Holmes?” His eyes were set on John.

“Watson. Doctor John Watson. We bonded, but. We- we’re not—” He flushed, and the doctor nodded in understanding.

“Dr. Watson, if you would have a seat here, please? Just a few questions and we can be on our way.” He smiled amiably, and something tight inside of John loosened. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Dr. Barns seemed fine, and John answered the generic questions with the ease of someone who had seen them time and time again. Yes, he wasn’t taking any pills (not anymore), his last heat was five weeks ago. Honestly, he was shocked there was so little paperwork (Mycroft’s doing?). John was barely even paying attention until the man patted the surface next to where he sat, smiling in that disarming way of his. “According to your file, you’re at five weeks; is this correct?" He waited for a nod. "A couple of tests are in order, and your ultrasound. For the Pap Test we’re going to need you to change, but first.” He handed John a cup that was very familiar to him. He sighed; he always hated urine tests.

After John struggled to keep Sherlock out of the bathroom—because that was _private, thank you very much,_ and Sherlock needed to _learn the concept_ —and his height and weight were taken, along with a few other tests, he was finally back in the examining room, adorned in an uncomfortable blue robe on that went just past his knees. It rubbed against his nipples, which wasn’t the most pleasant experience; his breasts were starting to get sore as of late and he longed to rub the ache out of the flesh. John kicked his heels against the table.

“Now for that Papanicolaou Test. As a doctor yourself, I assume we don’t need to explain what that is.” He offered a consolatory smile. “If you would lean back, please.” John admired him; the doctor must be used to this sort of thing, for when Sherlock growled dangerously as he parted John’s legs to place them in the stirrups, he met Sherlock’s accusatory stare without fear until he backed down. Bloody Alphas acting like bloody children. John was the one who was uncomfortable here! His bloody legs were spread and he wasn’t at all comfortable with the way Sherlock kept trying to move over for a peek.

“Will you cut it out?” John finally snapped, swatting at the nearest bit of him. He managed to get at his hip, nearly setting Sherlock off balance. They glared at each other and the doctor ignored them until he was finished.

When he stood up, their doctor rested a hand on John’s knee, patting gently. “You have two options, John,” he said, all calm. “I can either send you through an induced heat, or I can forcefully remove the mucus from your vaginal entrance. The latter is much more uncomfortable, and with an Alpha, especially, I would recommend an induced heat.”

John was a doctor, first and foremost. Then he was an army man. Further, he was a(n) (ex?)priest. Between these three, John knew that removing the mucus without the smooth wet of heat could be fairly painful and extremely uncomfortable. And although he didn’t like it, John swallowed and agreed to the first without much more thought on the matter. This was awkward enough, legs spread wide. His knees kept twitching like he wanted them to close. Luckily, the doctor let his gown hand over his knees, obscuring on what Sherlock was so keen.

“It isn’t as if I haven’t seen it before,” Sherlock snapped. It was true, and it wasn’t like John hadn’t spent days changing - albiet with curtains - in front of his army mates, but he still felt... vulnerable. Exposed. He didn’t like the way Sherlock looked at him, like he was something to be observed under a microscope. 

John took the pills offered, assured they could finish up in twenty minutes. After that, his heat would fully come in about 6-8 hours, so he had quite a while until his body worked up enough lubrication to where John was in the safe zone. He warned them, although tempting it may be, not to penetrate until they were certain he was fully in heat. John nodded, a little dazed, and the doctor smiled.

“While we’re waiting, I’ll take your blood pressure and then a sample.” The needle didn’t faze him, but Sherlock didn’t seem to blink until the needle was carefully removed from his skin. The room seemed to settle a bit, after that. Why Sherlock just couldn’t be normal (were all Alphas this possessive?), John would never know. He merely waited as the physician left to take care of something, fingers lightly drumming on his stomach.

“What is the point of this? I know you’re perfectly healthy. How often do you Omegas have to go through this?” He sneered at the whole setup. John merely rolled his eyes for the thousandth time; Sherlock was just being a child because he didn’t like what was happening.

“The Pap Test? Once a year, at least.” John didn't mind it that much, honestly. The brief heat was like an uncomfortable fever that lasted only a few hours once it got going. John didn’t explain why they had these tests; he didn’t think he needed to until he noticed Sherlock was looking at him like he was insane.

“Whatever for?”

“You really don’t know anything about Omegas or pregnancy, do you?” For a genius, he was incredibly ignorant.

“If it wasn’t important, I deleted it.”

John appeared perplexed. “Excuse me, deleted?”

Sherlock leaned forward, eager to arouse his Omega’s attention and awe. “There’s so much filth people filter into their minds, John. Weather patterns, the solar system. Useless information that only serves to take up space in the limited areas of the brain. The less useless information I carry, the more likely I am to remember what’s important.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” John laughed; Sherlock looked wounded. “You can’t actually do that, you know. The brain doesn’t work like that. How do I know you’re not tricking me?”

Sherlock snorted, even more offended by the notion. “As if I would purposefully lie and pretend.” He sounded a bit like Mycroft there, actually. They both had a way to spit out words like they were damning the devil.

"That makes sense; you haven’t gone completely bonkers,” John drawled. “I can’t even imagine anyone else claiming to delete general facts of life. You do know where babies come from, don’t you?” he teased. Sherlock appeared scandalized, and was about to say something brilliant, John was sure, before their favorite beta-man came back.

“Are you ready, John? Feeling a bit loose, now?” Sherlock twitched and John flushed.

“Yes. Go right ahead. I’ll be right here, with you all the way.” He earned a dry smile as the beta seated himself, instruments in hand.

“We’re going to use a lot of lubrication to open you up properly. Throughout the pregnancy you will produce lubrication to clean out bacteria as your vagina opens, but at this point it is nearly nonexistent. It might be cold. Try to keep as still as possible,” he warned, gently patting his thigh. John swallowed and nodded. Sherlock moved closer, practically vibrating with energy. This man, this inadequate _beta_ was going to touch John. His lips pulled back into a snarl and John thought fast, gasped where the cold tool entered him and spread him wide open. His left leg began to shake.

“The test is to check for infection, to make sure the mucus is lining up properly, as a general check-up, and to detect potentially pre-cancerous and cancerous processes,” John grit out, gripping Sherlock’s arm now. God— that was weird. It would never not be weird.

Sherlock’s attention diverted, sufficiently distracted for the moment. “I can’t believe you don’t know any of this. What if you need it for a case?” The doctor muttered assurances (“You’re doing very well. Just keep still”) and gently probed at his vagina. John twitched and tried to neutralize his expression. Sherlock was caught between two sides of John. “Really, I want to know.”

“It isn’t my place to know _everything._ ”

“Could have fooled me,” John chuckled weakly. The doctor pulled out and went to attach the cotton swab to a longer metal piece so he could take a sample. Sherlock leaned in and pressed his hand to John’s cheek, smoothing it over his skin. His gaze was sharp, looking for any signal of pain. John did not lean into the touch, not at all.

“I connect the dots, point them out, and if the Yard is too stupid to suss out specific problems of their post-mortem patients, then it’s hardly my fault.” Not a moment too soon the doctor was putting away the instruments and the samples to be taken to a different location for testing before turning back to John.

“The results should come back fairly quickly. Depending on your any irregularities we may find, it could be either within days or a few weeks." Dr. Barns faced them fully, his trusty clipboard resting in his hands.

"Now Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes has already taken the liberty to set up appointments for you, which you may review at your convenience." He smiled. "We'll discuss those in a moment. Right now... your baby should be about the size of a bean." He chuckled and shuffled a few papers. "You'll see him or her in a few moments yourself. If you'll allow me."

As the doctor inserted the probe, John considered the fact that he... hadn't really considered that bit yet. The baby, whatever gender it presented as, was barely a thought, pushed to the back of his mind. It was a baby, but it hadn't registered that this baby was _alive_ and _growing_. It was a real thing, and it would probably look like a bean right now, apparently, tiny and alive. He pressed his fingers against the flat space of his abdomen and nodded absently. Sherlock's eyes remained on him until the doctor was pulling at the gown, lifting it with the gel substance in his gloved hands. "It might be cold." It was quickly and carefully spread across his stomach, and as promised, it was cold. The machine was switched on and their doctor searched for signs of the pregnancy. Sherlock stepped closer, getting as close as possible without obstructing their view of the grainy picture.

Some part of John had almost expected nothing to happen, as if it all were one giant dream. The picture didn't yield anything, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that thought, when the doctor finally hummed and stopped, pointing. "There they are, just a little shy." It looked... like a bean. Or an egg, actually. Sherlock stood frozen, his lips parted slightly at he gazed at the screen. John blinked at the static-like black spot in the middle, unable to comprehend that a small being was inside of him. He looked at Sherlock, who found it difficult to tear his gaze from the screen, looking alight and curious, like a child that had found a new puzzle to play with.

"This is fascinating," Sherlock remarked, and his eyes turned to rest warmly on John.

John swallowed. "It's... amazing." That was all he could say. It really was.

"All right." The jelly was cleaned, and John was given his clothing to change into. "There are a few details to discuss..." He rattled off the information, details and visits, of what John would need to take care, and how the pregnancy should span out. It was all fairly straightforward, but it made John's head spin. He had a hard time concentrating on it all, along with everything else, and it was a relief to see Sherlock rapt, most likely memorizing every work he spoke.

When it was all done, the doctor smiled at them. "You can see yourselves out, can’t you? If you need anything, or there seems to be a problem with the induced heat, don’t hesitate to call.” He bid them a final goodbye, and then John was awkwardly getting dressed with Sherlock in the room.

Anthea was still on her phone when they came out, and she blinked as if coming out of a stupor. “All done?” John nodded and she dialed a few numbers. “The car will be around momentarily.”

Sherlock and Anthea moved before he did, a striking picture together. They were tall, lean, and both gorgeous. John averted his gaze and followed along, not liking how it made his stomach twist. Everything was so posh here. Sherlock and Mycroft and even his assistant were high class citizens. John hadn't realised how inadequate he seemed around them, but he was sure feeling it now.

He clambered in the car, flanked by his shadows once again, and prepared for a very boring wait until his temporary heat came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are mine. The next chapter will finally start to resolve everything shhhh my sweets, don't worry.


	11. I want you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John should have known Sherlock would upset the balance again, in some way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this chapter made me really nervous, it took me ages to find a proper beta. Thank the lords for beautifullyheeled, who stuck with me and beta'd the entire fic (not much has changed, but if you ever feel like re-reading you might notice) along with ice_evanesco and OrphanText for their never-ending help <333.

As soon as they arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock, who was carrying the photographs from the ultrasound, stole into his room, coveting the photos like a protective mother hen. When he returned, probably having hidden the photos under the boards or something comparably ridiculous, he told John to prepare. John rolled his eyes. "For what?" he asked, exasperated with the situation already.

"The case." The 'obviously' was implied. 

"Before we go _anywhere,_ I'm going to eat." He pointed at Sherlock, who scoffed when he said: "And so are you." Before he could make his protest, John waved his hand and went to have a piss, figuring he should enjoy it before his body grew larger and larger. He didn't think having a baby dancing on his bladder was going to be a fun experience. 

Once he had returned, Sherlock declared "I don't eat on a case.” He seemed to be absorbed in his laptop now, brows furrowed.

"Yes, well sometimes consulting detectives need to realise eating isn’t a bad thing. You might actually get something out of it." John set about cooking up something decent, surprised (for the second time) when he realised Sherlock had actually tried to get decent food. None of it was unhealthy, as far as Tesco's went.

“It slows the mind and makes me sluggish. Hunger sharpens my senses.” Tap tap tap. “Besides, the body can survive for three weeks on water alone.” 

“That is only the case when someone has enough body fat, thank you. I don’t think you have enough to survive a day.” John pulled out eggs. Omelets sounded like a good, safe idea, considering he wasn't the best of cooks. When he glanced over at Sherlock, he took a moment to watch his fingers fly across the keyboard of his laptop. The speed was alarming. 

Silence filled the flat as John began his omelet, the sizzle of eggs, cheese, and vegetables breaking the quiet every so often.

At one point Sherlock sat up and said, "By the way John, I know in which university the murderer resides," Sherlock said with quiet excitement some minutes later. He actually had an idea as to whom it was. It hadn’t been too difficult to hack into their database and find a time when the three dead students [Lestrade emailed him their names] went to class together. It was a few years ago, but it fit his conclusion. John didn’t need to know that; let him think they were simply investigating. John turned slightly, fork-deep in his omelet by this point (Sherlock had politely declined) and took a moment to swallow.

“You found what? How do you know he—or she—went to uni?” John faced him fully and met that signature look; the one that said why-am-I-so-much-smarter-than-you. John just nodded and went back to eating, ears open.

“It’s really not that difficult of a stretch. You remember the three dead students that were found.” Sherlock was in full deduction mode. “One of them was identified as Jerry Cruncher. Now, what do we know about students? They have a heavy workload much of the time, and generally they have a place of organization. A planner, an agenda, or an online database, like a calendar. Many professors require a blog that their students must keep up with.”

“What does a blog have to do with it?” John asked after swallowing. It actually didn’t taste half bad, if he did say so for himself.

Sherlock steepled his fingers, each one individually twitching against the other in what John perceived as excitement. “Every student in this age of technology—particularly one studying in Oxford—must keep a blog. All I had to do was piece together the names with their respective blogs and come up with a list of students.”

“Really,” John responded, vaguely. He didn’t really understand technology, nor had the time for it. Sherlock’s fingers would fly across his tiny phone screen while John struggled to send a text to Harry. He noted he had finished his meal with a sad sigh and brought his plate into the sink, giving it a good washing before setting it back in place. “And you’re going to visit Oxford tomorrow?”

“Of course not. We’re going now.”

“Wha— _now?_ ” John sputtered. He was hours away from heat, for Christ’s sake. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. You have at least five and a half hours until your ‘heat’ begins. We have plenty of time.” He slapped the laptop closed and gathered his scarf and coat to go out. 

“Well that makes perfect sense. How far away is Oxford?” John wiped off a few crumbs from the table as Sherlock hesitated.

“About two hours.” 

“Have fun, Sherlock. I’ll be here.” 

Sherlock spun on him, pleading with his eyes and body language. “Come _on_ , John. This is an important case, and I need you.” 

“Why do you need me? Why now? Why don’t you just let the police handle this.” John looked around for the bin; he’d moved it to clean everything... where was it? “I’m a doctor, and last time I heard, this case didn’t require medical expertise.” 

“Because by the time they stop asking relatives and friends and look back, the murderer will have escaped!” Sherlock calmed himself and lowered his head meekly. “Please, John.” Looking over, John found the submission very wrong. The omega inside him wanted to get on his knees and hug the sadness out of his voice; luckily John was not a complete slave to his biology and ignored the twinge his heart gave, instead focusing on what he would eat before the time came. 

“No. Do you understand that after two hours on the train, we would at most have two hours to safely look all we can, and then there’s another two hours until we get home, who knows how I’d feel by then. Not to mention the amount of other people around, scents mixing and making things worse. So, again, no.” He sighed. “If it means that much to you, I can handle this heat myself. I’ve dealt with induced heats all my life; they’re like a bad fever and last only for a few hours.” 

Sherlock hovered by the kitchen, swaying on his feet before he decided John was right. The thought of another near his omega made him want to flex and growl; surrounded by people and their scents, he might attack. 

“Fine. Stay.” Sherlock sprinted to the windows, making sure they were locked, closed the curtain, and checked the locks on the doors three times before he finally gathered himself to leave. Sherlock stopped and looked at John in warning. “Do not leave this house.” 

“All right.”John rolled his eyes, knowing he was dealing with The Alpha.

“Don’t let anyone in. Even if it’s Mycroft. No— _especially_ if it’s Mycroft. I wouldn’t be surprised if my brother decided he wanted to take you for himself. Having one omega wouldn’t be enough—”

“Your brother isn’t about to steal me away. Bloody alphas.” 

He was more amused with the situation than angry. Sherlock glared at his grin, hesitating a final moment, and then he swept John into a fierce kiss, hands molding to the soft contours of his face. "Don't let Mycroft eat you," he warned, garnering a laugh from John.

"Have fun hunting criminals." He realised how strange that sounded from a normal point of view. "Stay safe." _Be back soon_ was implied. Sherlock hurried out the door and after a final backwards glance, John was left to do... whatever he wanted, he supposed. 

Resisting the urge to look out the window and watch Sherlock leave, he began by picking up any stray bits and pieces of Sherlock’s things that were lying around. He hadn't touched the space above the fireplace, not wanting to intrude. John briefly wondered how far alphas would go with territory and the like; that skull definitely looked slightly menacing. Had Sherlock ever killed a man? The thought left him shuddering slightly. 

John had his fair share of witnessing violent deaths, but it was harder to imagine a civilian like Sherlock chasing after a man, gun cocked. He paused that train of thought. _Actually_ , John decided, _it isn’t hard to imagine_. Still. It made him uneasy.

He shifted his gaze, disturbed by the silence, and began to pace unconsciously, checking the locks every so often whenever he felt the pang of an omega missing its alpha. 

In a normal heat John would have gone through habitual weeks of growing closer to his alpha, driven by an inexplicable urge to merge their scents and touch often. John didn’t feel much different than usual for this heat, though his biology whined against Sherlock’s absence.

Instead of pacing aimlessly around the flat, John forced himself into the kitchen. Food tended to calm his nerves during heat. Omega biology was simplistic in its nature. The Omega would stock on food, developing a ravenous appetite, and then once heat threatened, the appetite before and during heat became nugatory until its termination. Feeling a bit peckish, he hobbled to the fridge and looked at the variety in front of him, focusing on the cheeses Sherlock had bought. 

After some consideration he picked out his preferred meat and lettuce. John began to assemble the sandwich and was putting the cheese on the bread when he decided he was no longer hungry. This always seemed to happen, the idea of food suddenly seeming unappealing.Sighing, John put the ingredients away and retreated into him room to rest the day away.

Flopping gracelessly onto his bed in a heap, he wondered idly how long it would take him to fall asleep. The prospect of a nightmare from his army days kept him up for hours; sometimes he laid awake all night without respite. They had become less frequent with Sherlock occupying his time and mind—a fact that would please the alpha. John felt a yawn crawl up his throat, so he changed into something more comfortable. He crawled under the duvet, snuggling up into a ball and let himself begin to doze.

An undetermined time later, John was rolling on his sheets, then half falling off of the bed he let out an undignified shout, jerking awake. Once he had determined he wasn’t battling with an unknown enemy, the first thing he noted was that he had somehow thrown his pillow off of the duvet and the sheets were caught around his legs. 

The second thing was the flat smelled _wrong_. His instincts kicked in and he was up in seconds, rifling through his things to get at his gun, only to find it was missing. He hadn’t brought it, understandably. Damn. Damn!

Cursing himself, John looked for a weapon when he heard whomever it was speak loudly from the other room.

“I just want to talk.”

The voice was clear, his scent nonthreatening. At least, it would have been had John not been mere hours away from his heat. His gaze swept to the clock, checking. It had gone 3 so he’d slept about five hours then. John’s body had probably gone into its preheat state, when all he wanted was sleep and to snuggle up with an Alpha. Checking himself, John felt slightly damp all over, but until the first wave of the heat hit, he wasn’t yet ready. Good.

John walked into the living room carefully, the man’s scent hitting him like a freight train; it told him about the Omega (exhausted, afraid), but mostly it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. 

_He shouldn’t be here. Sherlock should be here. Where was Sherlock?_

“Who are you?” John sounded rightfully agitated, and his heart was beating rapidly in its cage. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. This Omega had to be the one who had murdered those people. Anyone else with some sense would be long gone; the scent of Omega about to enter heat was nearly palpable. “You’re the Omega Sherlock has been looking for.”

“I was originally coming to see your Sherlock,” The Omega froze, then nodded. A gun rested in the Omega’s lap. He had short, curly hair that looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His eyes looked haunted, hollow. He was too thin. Everything felt surreal.“Amazingly enough, he isn’t here, and his _Omega_ is. You’re about to go into heat. It’s irresponsible of him to leave you here on your own.”

Despite the truth of such a statement, John bristled. 

“Leave,” John demanded. 

“Please sit, Mr.…?” The strange Omega asked with false pleasantness.

John had a feeling he was going to be here awhile, so after a full minute of staring at the Omega, John decided the man sounded more than a little desperate, maybe a little crazed. So John sat.

“Watson. John Watson.” 

“Good job.” The Omega grinned making John twitch. “As I said, I just want to talk. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.” 

“About what?” John licked his dry lips, in desperate need of a drink. “How you successfully murdered three young Alphas?”

“They deserved it.” The man’s voice was low. At the mention of the victims, the Omega’s expression darkened. His hands were shaking subtly on the arms of the chair he sat in opposite to John. “Those three have done things to me that I— to this day I haven’t forgotten.”

John was perplexed, his panic rising, his mouth felt like sandpaper. He let his fingers curl into fists (he, a soldier, knew best). “You can’t reason murder.” 

“You don’t understand,” said the Omega loudly, leaning forward as John leaned back into the sofa cushions, as if to emphasize his point and assert his will. “I was the only Omega teacher in that school at the time...most just don’t try, as you are likely aware yourself. They were my students years ago when they first enrolled at Oxford. I don’t know how friendly they were with each other before, but when they came to my class...”

John had the feeling it was a jumble in his mind, trying to get out all at once. The man’s thoughts were incongruent and the gun gleamed like eyesore, commanding half of John’s attention. He tried to make himself relax, if only to calm the other Omega.

“They were average students and I was used to the Alpha population that dominates Oxford. The students seemed enchanted by an older, intelligent, unbound Omega and wanted to know all about me. Things escalated. One of them propositioned me...I refused...then all of them. I tried to warn them off, but they were persistent.” 

Now the Omega sounded tired, his voice dipping low and toneless. He looked tormented. 

“Eventually there came a time when they— they —“ He swallowed, the quivering of his hand worsening. He curled his hands into fists, gritting his teeth so hard John heard them squeak. 

The man laughed bitterly, continuing until it seemed almost manic. John’s jaw was clenched so hard it ached. He had seen the look on a startling amount of Omegas and it bothered him every time.

“One of them bonded with me. You’re a bonded Omega; you know what’s it’s like, but you don’t— you can’t imagine the _pain_.” He was near tears, only steadying himself with heavy breathing.

“Day by day, night by night. I’ve had nightmares—” He covered his face with his hands, pain and anger molding his features grotesquely.

As a doctor and an Omega himself, John could imagine. He had felt empty without Sherlock. Weeks of denial and the same hollow feeling this Omega experienced hadn’t been the least bit pleasant, but he hadn’t gone years without a bond and a traumatic experience to boot.

Omegas who didn’t take care of themselves after breaking their first bonds often found their solace in suicide. It was a depressing trend, and one not only found in Omegas—Alphas suffered equally—sometimes more. John felt intense sympathy for the man, despite all current ends.

“There are people who can help you,” John said, hating how he sounded like his therapist. He kept his cool, raising his hands in an unthreatening manner as the Omega raised his head briefly. “You don’t have to do it this way. You don’t have to deal with this on your own.”

The Omega chose to ignore John. 

“I tried talking to another teacher,” The man continued. ”But they claimed because it was during heat, what did it matter? And I ‘enjoyed’ it, in a technical sense. Revenge became my only solace. Cliche, I’m aware.” 

Tears threatened to stream down the Omega’s cheeks, which he wiped away hastily.

“I’m sorry,” said John as sincere as he could manage. He was sorry that he had to deal with that; he was sorry it had driven him to kill three people.

“It actually feels refreshing to get that off of my chest.” The omega rose, gun in hand. “I’m sorry, too, John.” The sound of the gun’s safety clicking off filled the sudden emptiness inside John’s head.

—-

The tube was irritating, but manageable. The passengers grated on his nerves and the smells [his own senses increased due to his mate’s heat] made his insides itch. Sherlock only snapped at them three times, and only one of them cried. Sherlock was beginning to see the pointlessness of such an endeavor, and the thought that he would soon return to John kept him sane.

All of the passengers breathed a sigh of relief when it was his stop.

Oxford was a large place, and without proper evidence he would be completely lost as to his start. Luckily, he was not the Scotland Yard and immediately searched for the Chemistry classroom the Alphas had shared at one point. It only took him roughly ten minutes to locate the classroom, and when Sherlock arrived he wanted to howl in frustration. The professor had left a note on the door, dismissing the class for that week. Just as he was turning to leave, a pretty young Alpha woman glanced between the door and Sherlock. 

“If you’re looking for Mr. Znao, he’s not here.” At his murderous glare [really, as if he could not see the note on the door?] she added, perhaps trying to be helpful: “He’s probably away for his heat and won’t be back for a while. He’s one of the few Omegas in the university.”

The solution offered itself with a suddenness that was staggering. Sherlock’s eyes widened imperceptibly and he stared at the door, which at once became the solution.

…And the problem. 

“Of course! Stupid, stupid!” Sherlock drove past the girl, ignoring her indignant cry. 

The expectation that Znao would escape had been seemingly apparent; he would have assumed that Znao would act normally until suspicions of murder had disappeared, but apparently he was leaving as soon as possible. Idiot. The police would be on him like hounds on a drugs bust. Sherlock pushed past a group that blocked his way, walking at a glacial pace, calculating the most likely escape plan Znao may have taken, when his mobile rang.

—-

“Call him.” The Omega demanded, hovering over John’s chair. John’s heart jumped out of his chest every time the man twitched or moved the gun.

“Who?” John knew it could be dangerous to play with this one, but being an Omega himself, he doubted the other would strike him. John found he was right soon enough. The omega snarled and grabbed the phone from his sweaty hands, scrolling through the contacts until he had Sherlock’s number on the screen. John accepted the phone when it was handed to him and held it to his ear; at least he was allowed that privacy.

After a few seconds of ringing he heard the connecting click. 

_“Sherlock Holmes.”_ Sherlock sounded unconcerned, if not slightly irritated, and John hesitated for a moment.

“Sherlock, it’s me.” John tried to sound natural, but he feared his voice may have cracked. His fingers wrapped around his mobile were white.

 _“John.”_ Sherlock sounded instantly like he was on alert. _“Is something wrong?”_

Just hearing his voice was bliss. John wished he could savour it; the gun, however, kept his wits about him.

“Yeah, a bit. There’s someone here. For you. An Omega.” He heard a sharp intake, a soft curse, and then quiet for some moments.

_“John, get out of there.”_

“Afraid that’s not possible. I’ve got a gun to my head.” Which was pressing down on the back of his head, very uncomfortably. He listened to silence, and then:

_“What does he want.”_

John closed his eyes slowly as the gun dug into his skull, brain on temporary shut down. His heat was messing with his head. Sherlock sounded frightened. John would like nothing more than for him to be there with him. He relayed it to the omega.

“Tell him not to phone the police,” The Omega paused and then the gun’s cold metal was pressing down harder. “Nor any of his ‘friends’ who might associate with them. Do not talk to anyone. Come to Baker Street, alone.” 

The Omega demanded the phone be put on speaker so Sherlock could hear him directly.

“If I find out you have told anyone about this; if police cars start suddenly surrounding this place, your omega is dead. One more body isn’t going to change anything.”

Sherlock was very quiet on the other end, and John thought he heard the sound of people in the background amidst the soft, enraged growling of his alpha. John didn’t think this guy would have the guts to do it—he could hear his hand shaking—but he wasn’t about to take chances. Not when his legs were beginning to feel like rubber, his body starting to boil.

“Hurry up,” John ground out, trying not to sound desperate. 

_"John."_ The sentiment was obvious. _Be safe. wait for me._

John swallowed, his throat dry.

"Yes." 

The Omega yanked the phone away from him and shut it off before tossing it back to John. 

"Now we wait." The exhaustion was back in his voice, but John was past noticing at this point. He shifted in his seat, feeling the wetness beginning to gather. It was entirely uncomfortable and at this point he would have undressed, had it not been for the untimely intruder. The Omega could likely smell it on him, but he had the sense to say nothing about it. 

“How—” John had to swallow repeatedly. “How did you find out about Sherlock? His _investigation_ , if you could call it that, wasn’t even in the paper.”

"You would be surprised at what the police will say to a concerned professor. I was so worried about my students, so ready to help, that they released Sherlock Holmes' name within minutes." 

“Why go to these lengths? Why not just run?”

“Justice always finds its victims, so I had to go to justice itself.” 

John swallowed compulsively again, but it was more than the usual nausea. The Omega in front of him was making him nervous. Heat was supposed to be a done deal; when an Alpha and their Omega engaged, it was with readiness and care (usually). Not to mention instinct, and instinct was telling John to kick this Omega out by his rear end. Unfortunately, that problem wasn't going to cease until Sherlock showed his face. 

John was still cursing the man for leaving at a crucial time minutes later when the man turned on the Telly. It was something with an Omega and an Alpha, some romance maybe. John couldn't pay attention; every minute that went by made his condition worse. If he was lucky, the Omega would be sympathetic to their common natures. 

"Do you think I could go to my room and--"

"I'm sorry, John, but I can't let you do that." He did sound sorry, but John was fucking past caring. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, and then spread them slightly to give himself some room to breathe, repeating the process over the next ten minutes. His captor didn't once look over, but at least he wasn't commenting on it. 

At the half-hour mark, John didn't think he was going to make it. Normally heat was like a fever, maybe with a few arousing effects, but never like this. It felt like ants were under his skin, crawling and biting, getting more harsh as time continued. It must have been Sherlock's scent, not stale in the slightest. John had gotten used to the air, but his body was telling him _Alpha! Alpha! Your Alpha is nearby!_ even without it being strictly true. Trying to keep his breathing under control, John shifted in the chair. As if his body was on autopilot, his legs spread and he rubbed against the cushion, erupting into shivers. A low moan tore from him and he went rigid, trying to resist repeating the brief sensation, like scratching an itch; it would only make it worse. 

“You should try and sleep. We have some time to go yet.” 

That was easier said than done. While an itch might go away with enough waiting, this would only grow worse and worse--almost as bad as trying to scratch it. John held back a whimper and bit his lip, glancing at the clock. He could try and disable the Omega, but when he went to get himself a glass of water, his legs wouldn't stop shaking. There was no possible way he would be able to take him down now. The water didn't really help either; not unless he wanted to impale himself on the glass. 

So John slept.

\---

The sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs caused John to at first jerk awake, head whipping about the room frantically (as frantic as he could with an awful crick in his neck), and then groan in relief when he smelled that familiar scent. He was sweating all over, damp, and if he stood he knew his pants would be soaked. Barely awake, the door was flung open, and John's breath left him a rush. 

Sherlock's scent was virile and strong; it made John hard enough to cut diamonds. If it weren't for the gun, he would have jumped him right then and there; John truly _wanted_. The Omega and Sherlock both watched him palm himself uncontrollably, one gaze carrying a familiar pity and the other rage. Sherlock's snarl broke through the air and he looked about ready to launch himself at Znao. 

"Get out," Sherlock hissed. Znao pointed the gun at Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes, but didn't make a move towards his fraught companion. "I followed on your ridiculous--and frankly ludicrous--end of the bargain, which means leave. Now." 

Sherlock glanced at John, eyes nearly black, chest heaving as he breathed in John’s pheromones. Sherlock took a step toward John, who made a small whine sound within his throat, but the other Omega caught both of their attention. Sherlock snapped uselessly at the air. 

"Alphas," the Omega sneered. "Predictable. Pitiful. About that ‘bargain’. I know you enough to know that you won't let me get too far without calling the police. I'm also certain you have some sort of signal. A text, perhaps? An open window? No matter." 

His finger rested over the trigger, a symbol of their oncoming peril. 

"You didn't really think I would let you go, did you? I’m going to escape, and you will both die here together." His voice was quivering; Znao looked close to tears. “There’s no other way.” 

"I would clobber you if I could move. You have a bloody choice! What makes you think it's a good idea to—" John curled in on himself, panting. Sherlock took another step—

"Don't move!” The crazed Omega barked. “I... I told you. I would do it. I have to do it." 

John growled, but it came out similar to a groan. He couldn’t damn well move as cramps assaulted him, fierce due to the short span of the heat. When the wave settled, John opened his tightly shut eyes to witness Sherlock’s remarkably panicked expression, flickering between the killer and himself. John hadn’t seen a look on Sherlock like that before. It would have been amusing any other time.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, almost inaudibly. Sherlock sent a furtive glance in John's direction and then looked at Znao, biting his lower lip. He couldn’t leave things as they were—death was not an option. He had to save John...and then fuck him. Repeatedly, preferably. Sherlock licked his lips, catching the marvelous scent when John shifted. Znao clicked his tongue, shaking the gun in Sherlock’s direction. 

“As I thought, you can hardly control yourself. You would take any Omega that spread his legs, wouldn’t you?” Znao spat, obviously bitter. Sherlock bared his teeth at that before an idea occurred to him. Something very far off, put the only possible solution of which he could think at the moment. He brought himself up to his full height, face going still as an arrogantly sculpted stone statue. 

“You're a professor at Oxford, a good one,” he began. Znao narrowed his eyes, obviously baffled but unwilling to show it. “An Omega desperate to be with the best. What would drive a man of your position to do something so stupid? I originally thought it was jealousy—you were pampered, some would claim. Abandonment issues, perhaps linking to your Alpha father who abused your mother." He breathed, while Znao remained frozen.

"For all your apparent genius you were hasty; you forgot that they might come all at once. Old friends? Why would they. Waiting to see how it all turned out, you panicked; shot them with a second gun you carried [a miscalculation on my part] and ran off, hoping little notice would be sent in your direction. You were desperate, and who would connect those dots?”

Sherlock managed to glance at John, who seemed to be struggling furiously with himself. He seemed to realise what Sherlock was doing--distraction--as did Znao when he snapped out of his frozen state. 

"Shut up! You don't know what I've been through! You haven't—" He steadied his gun, blinking away tears as he made to pull the trigger. Quick as a whip—as this was their only chance—Sherlock ducked out of the way and John lunged, having been half-forgotten. Even if he hadn’t, the surprise left Znao defenseless and he was knocked back, but the bullet was launched, traveling over Sherlock's shoulder. He felt the air curl past his ear, the bullet a breadth away from hitting him. 

He shuddered.

John thought he might have slammed his head on the floor. He felt weak as a kitten when Znao struggled to get to his feet, but John wrapped his arms and legs around the other Omega’s torso. Having locked him relatively safely, Sherlock launched himself with the fury of a wild animal onto Znao. The only thing that kept Sherlock from viciously tearing the other man apart was the fact that he was an Omega—and Sherlock didn't fancy going to jail at this time. 

Sherlock avoided Znao’s snapping jaws, receiving spittle for his trouble. Actually, it wouldn't be too difficult to make it look like self defense, all things considered. With Lestrade and Mycroft on his side, it would be a fairly simple process. His dark thoughts were drowned out by the pounding of multiple pairs of feet, and then the door burst open.

"Sherlock, we heard a shot go off.” Lestrade's voice boomed. “Your bloody lucky we decided not to wait. Move it! Get the Omega. Don't touch John—he's the one in heat." 

John sagged, closing his eyes as the sudden scents raging on his delicate senses, even with scent maskers. He felt nausea roll through him and recoiled from the hands that grasped Znao, who struggled within their grip. When the Omega was apprehended by the suited Beta/Omega team, Sherlock at once stood up and towered over them, working his Alpha intimidation. They should not be here. Filthy Yarders, thinking they could come and take _his_ territory.

" _Out!_ " Sherlock roared. Lestrade looked like he wanted to argue, but the thick scent of an Omega in heat was telling him now was not the time. He wasn't too fond of being ripped to pieces. 

"You heard the man. Everybody out!" Lestrade watched the team leave before turning to Sherlock; he received a low growl for his trouble. "Text me when you're coherent. See you guys next week." With an exhausted grin, he hopped down the stairs. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief; it was a mistake. The scent of his Omega deeply in heat filled his senses and he whipped around. John was already reaching for him, shivering when Sherlock took him in his arms. 

"John...John." Sherlock kissed him with a violent passion, pulling him up by his hips. He rolled them on the floor, whispering John’s name between the heavy press of lips, pheromones clouding his mind. 

“You. Fuck you.” John was swearing between kisses, his body pinned by Sherlock’s. It took some time for Sherlock to realise John had said something, and only after he had ravaged John’s face did he recall it. 

“I thought it was the other way around,” he rumbled, brushing their noses together, breathing in the scent of _Omega_ and _wet_. 

“You utter prick,” John gasped, out of breath. He felt a rush between his legs. Oh fuck, he wanted him— needed him. Now. “I’m never letting you leave the flat again.” 

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Sherlock said, voice surprisingly soft, eyes warm. John wanted to punch him; everything that had happened, it was all but inevitable. John should have known Sherlock would upset the balance again, in some way. Yet it had happened and Sherlock had no right, no right at all to look like that. John wanted to resist, but he'd stopped trying that awhile ago. 

Like now, with insistent hands that had sneaked their way between their bodies and were tugging at the edges of his clothing. John drew back a little, just long enough for their clothes to fall open. Then it was skin on skin, and John couldn't resist pushing back against Sherlock’s body any more than he could stop the whimpering noises he made in his mouth, and it was all because of that look, except he wasn't any better at resisting with his eyes closed, either.

Sherlock was dipping between his thighs, parting him to lick, suck, and oh— heaven almighty. John’s threw his head back and cried out, writhing against his warm, wriggling tongue. 

“Sherlock! Oh- Sherlock. _Please_.” 

And John wasn’t above begging, just as he wasn’t above giving in. Not when it felt this good, when he needed it this much. Sherlock replaced his tongue with two fingers, and soon a third, where it was all wet and smooth. 

Sherlock felt like he should be more coherent than the time previously, yet his head felt like cotton. John’s cheeks and face, flushed with life, were distracting him. His lips found John’s equally flushed cock, and then Sherlock was engulfing the hot flesh, something inside of him purring when he heard John sob, twitching distinctly against the roof of his mouth. Moments later he felt a sharp tug at his curls, and then John released into his mouth, sweet and bitter and _John_. 

Sherlock was sure John was saying something, pleading with him, but he could hardly hear. Not when John’s hands were running across his abdomen and chest, anywhere he could reach, nails leaving trails of hot sparks racing to the tips of his toes. Sherlock kissed John like a man drowning. It felt natural to pull himself back slightly, to take his cock in hand after stroking John’s swelling prick a few times and position himself. 

“Oh God oh God oh _fuck_.” John threw his head back and keened, bending his back so far Sherlock nearly slipped out before he was even in. After a few seconds of fumbling, he pulled John’s legs apart and thrust in smoothly, stopping about halfway. 

Oh, it was so tight, even tighter than he remembered. It felt so good. It felt right. 

“You’re so wet," Sherlock purred. "To your knees, I should think. I can feel you gripping me. It’s amazing.” Sherlock’s damp curls pressed against John’s forehead. “You feel incredible and you’re mine. All mine.” Sherlock was supposed to sound arrogant and possessive, not reverent and that... soft. It made John’s heart ache. 

Sherlock pressed feverish kisses along John’s throat before gently biting down on the bondbite. _“Christ.”_ It was like a throb. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock tightly and he pushed in, until he was fully sheathed, earning a deep moan from the Alpha. John’s toes curled as Sherlock stilled, before he began moving again, planting his arms on either side of John to better fuck him. Both of them ignored the burn of the carpet and reason telling them this was a horrible place to knot. 

_Jesus_. With one hand tearing at his own hair, John scrambled for something to hold onto, finding Sherlock’s shoulder as he gave a few more powerful thrusts. 

“Do you want my knot, John?” 

A blush climbed on John’s cheeks as Sherlock spoke, and he grew visibly aroused, almost thrashing now. 

“My knot’s remarkably thick. You want to feel it, don’t you?” He lowered his voice, speaking the filthy words right into his ear. “I can feel you gushing with its mere mention. How badly do you want it?”

“Yes,” John gasped, shivering against Sherlock’s hot breath. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and clung to him, moaning when it caused him to go deeper. Sherlock’s hips stuttered, deeply affected by the way his Omega shivered and clung to him with his last breath.

“I can’t- John-” With an embarrassed groan that was muted by his Omega’s lips, Sherlock’s knot began to swell.

“O-oh, _Sherlock_. I- oh _God_.” This was what it was like to go into heat when bonded, this connection. It felt like nothing either of them had ever experienced. Sherlock didn’t enter just yet, allowing it to rub against his stretched rim, sending John careening into another orgasm. Once John sagged slightly, relaxing, Sherlock pressed his knot past any further resistance, peppering soothing kisses across John’s jaw, calming his pained whimpers. 

The first knotting was always painful, especially if sex wasn’t a regular occurrence between two people. Nothing else carried weight in Sherlock’s mind other than soothing John as he adjusted to the full girth inside of him. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, feeling like a missing piece had been put in place. He ran his thumb across John’s lower lip, earning an exhausted smile. 

“We’re never doing this again,” John smirked tiredly. “No more murder investigations until you’re an old man—then you won’t be able to move anyway.” 

Sherlock chuckled, of all things, his arousal fading as he pumped his seed into John. Normally this would mean impregnation, of course. He pressed his palm against the flat plane of John’s stomach, curious to know how long this knotting would last, and if more rounds were plausible. 

“You look like you’re thinking,” said John, quietly. His eyes were locked on Sherlock’s slender hand pressing where the baby was forming.

“I’m always thinking. It’s an unfortunate disposition of the intelligent.” John rolled his eyes. Sherlock looked around, wondering if the couch, which was a few feet away, would be too much of an arduous venture. The rug was uncomfortable. 

“Push yourself up,” Sherlock commanded, sitting up purposefully. The knot was tugged in the process of situating themselves, which left both of them wincing in pain, but at length John was in Sherlock’s lap, who wrapped John in his arms to keep him from falling. It was a difficult task, considering John was leaning heavily on Sherlock, his exhaustion apparent [emotionally and physically devastated, doubtlessly].

“How do you you feel?” Sherlock nosed at the skin under John’s ear, his scent pleasant and ripe. Would its fragrance increase with pregnancy hormones? It was worth further study.

“Tired. Randy, though there’s not much I can do about that. I just.. I just want to forget any of this happened.” John laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, shivering when he felt Sherlock empty another wave inside of him.

“Do you.” Sherlock’s voice sounded strange. His arms tightened protectively around John. “If that was your wish, I’m sure we could arrange something. Mycroft has ample room in his summer home, if you would rather not return to your _village_ —”

“Hey, hey. I wasn’t talking about that.” John squeezed Sherlock’s sides, earning him a sound that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. “I just meant all of this. The investigation, the confusion and waiting. It was all very tiring, and I would have preferred a lie in with the telly.” 

It felt a little bit like a lie, saying that. He—as twisted as it sounded—almost enjoyed it, from an objective point of view. Throughout the whole ordeal, John had felt afraid. But underneath that, there had been some excitement before his heat kicked in. When he wasn’t worrying about himself and Sherlock, when he focused on the danger, there was that thrill. 

However, that wasn’t something he was going to dwell on at the moment. 

“With me, presumably.” Sherlock dropped a kiss on his lips. 

“‘Course,” said John. Then he seemed to realise he had said it and felt his face go pink. “I mean— yes. We have a lot to talk about, obviously. I still hardly know you. I mean, I know you, I suppose, but what about your family? Your past. That overbearing brother of yours.” 

Sherlock smiled at this, seemingly unperturbed by the invasion. He didn’t mind sharing such things with John, he found. John was more than pleasant company, and his mate. 

The knot slipped out just as Sherlock began. 

“The very first time I broke my arm was when I became aware of the concept of death; my mother was running towards me, shouting that I could have killed myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm erm I hope you liked unu. I can't casefic.
> 
> More to come...


	12. Fluff and Circumstance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta readers are the best, okay. I had a few different people look over this chapter, so I'm not going to name them all, but they are lovely.

John's heat lasted a remarkably short amount of time. After their first coupling, they moved to the bedroom for comfort, and Sherlock began talking about his life beginning from when he was a child.

"I was fascinated with death, and father never approved. Mummy found it endearing, and Mycroft was the one to show me the heart of a dead squirrel that had been run over when I was seven." John wrinkled his nose. "It was so tiny--a whole heart, a life source, and it could fit into the middle of my palm."

It was interesting. John hadn't seen Sherlock sound so reminiscent before when talking about his family; if anything, he looked terribly displeased whenever Mycroft was mentioned. Looking into his face, John felt the the strong urge to kiss him. Only, that was the heat talking, so he resisted.

John could admit that maybe it was a little bit of himself, too. How was anyone expected to resist when he insisted on speaking in a deep baritone, cupid’s bow lips forming words with a sensuality that shouldn't be possible. John licked his lips.

"At that point my perspective changed—life had new forms to ta-mmph."

John had all but tackled Sherlock, pressing their mouths together fiercely. Sherlock spread his legs and allowed John between them, arousal peaking with the fresh scent of his Omega.

"I don't want your entire life story.” John pressed a few shallow kisses to Sherlock’s lips. “I just want to know about what were you like as a mini-Sherlock and—" he was distracted by Sherlock's neck, on which he sucked enthusiastically. He forgot what they was talking about after that.

Sherlock spent the last part of John's heat eating him out, tongue licking broad stripes across his cleft, dipping in to taste at the heavenly fluid. He did it until John was shaking in his grip, pleading and sobbing. Sherlock used his fingers then, teasing John to multiple completions until he finally grabbed him by the hips, licking his lips of his mate’s lasting taste as he pounded John into completion.

When his sexual desire tapered off, John only wanted to cuddle. Sherlock was happy to give him a quick blow job during an abnormal spike, but John's libido had all but departed—enough that he was happy to rub himself, naked, across Sherlock, scenting him until their skin grew raw from their combined sweat. When John was satisfied and his skin was a little too pink for Sherlock's liking, the shower was the next destination. 

The room was small, barely enough to fit the two of them, but Sherlock didn't mind proximity. He took his time washing John, brushing a soft sponge over his sensitized skin.

A limp puddle in his arms, John leaning his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder. Something in his heart clenched desperately at this; for what he had missed in the last heat. It had been frantic and disgusting and beautiful, but it hadn’t been like this. Sherlock’s nose had not been buried in his hair, his lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said abruptly from behind him, as if reading his mind. His hands curled around John’s waist to rest on his abdomen and he pressed his forehead against the back of John's head.

"For what?" He asked, though he had an idea.

"I haven't been a very good Alpha, have I?"

John hesitated to say yes, even though he was mostly right. John hadn't been the best Omega either, though, had he? Both of them were inexperienced; completely new at bonding _and_ having a baby. They didn't even necessarily love each other. Which, John thought distantly, wouldn't be such a bad idea. Eventually.

"You're...not right and right all the same. You haven't been completely awful to me. We're new at this, Sherlock. From what your attitude towards everyone else tells me, you're not used to caring about people and having them get in your way." John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's, forcing him closer under the warm spray. He could feel the Alpha's frown against his skin.

"This is... weird." John admitted. "I've never entertained the thought of being with a man. And I'm not gay, it's just."

"You have always considered homophobic behavior a sin, even though it may not entirely affect your judgement of others."

Leave it to Sherlock to get to the crux of the issue. John was somewhat relieved he didn't have to stumble into it. Still, he didn't answer, instead kissing Sherlock's cheek, letting his urges to be close make him turn and bury his head into Sherlock's neck. "I'm exhausted," John admitted. "Let's just sleep."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue, and for a moment John worried he might, but he stepped out of the shower to fetch the both of them towels instead. John was soon wrapped in fluffy cotton, being rubbed vigorously. He tried not to giggle, failing when Sherlock licked a spot on his neck.

They tumbled onto the bed, which had to be changed first. John sat awkwardly on the right side, feeling strange for having crossed that boundary, until Sherlock wrapped his limbs around him tightly, forcing him into a spoon position before he turned out the light. John didn’t mind, not when he was half out of it with heat. Settling into place, he closed his eyes, trying to let himself fold into the exhaustion that clung to him.

Of course, the silence did not last. “It is an opinion you carried since you were young, isn’t it."

"That could easily be a guess,” John groused.

Assuming the conversation wasn’t about to disappear, John pulled Sherlock’s arms back and turned so he could face him. He looked as exhausted as John, but his eyes were wakeful; he wasn’t about to fall asleep without answers.

“How do you always know these things? Why bring it up?” John briefly thought of his days in the war, of watching men die and waiting for it to happen when they didn’t. “Does the past really matter that much?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before deciding he could risk showing off. "You said it yourself, though not directly, that you're not homophobic. Your willingness to copulate with me proves that. But your opinion was swayed—most likely by a close friend or family member. Your nature—somewhat isolate—indicates the latter." Sherlock breathed into his neck, nuzzling the soft skin, as if trying to remember the past memories held inside.

John didn't say anything, and Sherlock pressed his nose under John's ear, nibbling at the skin. "Your father?" John shook his head. “Mother, then.”

John sucked in his breath and let it out with a careful slowness. “Yes. When Harry came out, it - it wasn’t pretty.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. He moved his hand and splayed his fingers across John’s abdomen, pressing gently. It seemed to be his favourite position. “Probably didn’t help that I was propositioned none too gently once, just before I was discharged. He was handsome, all things considered.”

John chuckled. Sherlock quickly stilled behind him. John had only just reached the extent of the shortened heat, and Sherlock’s more primal side was, naturally, going to find fault with that statement. He forced himself to relax his metaphorical hackles.

However. "You're mine," Sherlock spoke into John's skin, his grip growing remarkably tight. The constrictions made an old panic settle in his chest, which he forced back, reminding himself that Sherlock was an Alpha in a short, intense heat and that their relationship had barely formed. The gentle press of Sherlock's lips against the juncture of his shoulder and neck was what kept him grounded.

Gritting his teeth, John pried Sherlock's arms off of him—or tried to—struggling in his surprisingly strong grip. Sherlock, perhaps caught up in his own mind, didn’t move as John struggled.

"I'm not anyone's!” It was a laugh of half amusement and half hysteria, but his following answer was a sharp command. “Get off!"

Sherlock snapped backwards as promised. "But I want you to be mine. Can’t you see?"

John couldn’t see it the way he saw it--as far as he was concerned, they were a done deal at the moment--but he could hear how torn Sherlock sounded; how he resisting in pushing John, yet that was exactly what he was doing.

Sherlock’s bare feet slapped the wooden floor loudly. He paced indecisively around one side of the room, frustration oozing from his every pore. "I'm- I'm sorry." He found himself apologizing a fair amount with the Omega. "I don't like it. The thought of anyone else fills me inexorable rage, and you claim you aren't mine..." He pulled at his hair, as if he didn't know how to deal with the prospect of John claiming such a thing.

John focused on reigning in the various emotions he felt while Sherlock lost himself briefly in his instincs. He didn’t move until Sherlock stopped pacing and his own heartbeat had slowed.

"Sherlock, listen to me." John slipped out of bed, padding towards Sherlock like he was trying to tame a frightened colt. When he was close, he cupped Sherlock's face, his hands warm from the cover of the duvet and their shared body heat, and pressed their foreheads together. The bond was a solid weight that seemed to grow stronger every day. "You can't control people just because you're an Alpha and you feel entitled. That's not how it works. It might have worked ages ago when Omegas still didn't have respect, but not anymore. I don't belong to anyone, all right?"

Sherlock paused, like he was planning on arguing, but then nodded.  "Apologies." He let his palms slide up over John's, lip trembling slightly. "I'm not being a very good mate, am I."

John felt a little thrill run through him when the word mate formed on Sherlock's lips. Through his smile he chuckled, though still a little weakly. God, he was exhausted. "You're damn right you aren't. Stop pouting. I wouldn't...mind it, if you'd only ask." John felt his face go pink in the darkness, and Sherlock's brightened.

"Will you then? Be mine. We're already bonded, you're going to stay with me, and you've both met and tolerated Mycroft and his constant shadow." Sherlock was beginning to babble. "I don't see what else would be a problem. The rest of my family is fairly standard--"

John quieted him with a kiss.

* * *

 

That morning wasn't much more pleasant than the last time. If anything, it was worse. Maybe it was all the stress, but John was leaning over the toilet, heaving the small breakfast he had consumed a mere hour earlier. He had been positively optimistic, but it appeared that he wasn't going to be that lucky.

Sherlock was in the other room, preparing him some tea. Initially he had refused, but when John turned green and skittered off to the bathroom, he reconsidered.

John stumbled out moments later, flopping gracelessly onto the sofa. He groaned weakly and waved a hand at Sherlock. "Tea?"

Sherlock brought him a steaming cup of English Breakfast, which John gratefully cupped in his hands. His nausea persisted, which was going to be extremely unfortunate in the coming months if it didn’t simmer down. John swallowed his tea. "I think it's worse today," he remarked after a moment of pause. The tea definitely helped.

Sherlock hummed in sympathy and moved into the kitchen. John closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his bare feet hitting the tiled floor, soothed by sounds of normalcy.  He lifted himself and watched Sherlock move about, fiddling with his test tubes, small bottles of solution in each hand. John didn't have the energy to ask whether or not the substances were noxious and sighed, rolling until he was gazing at the ceiling. His stomach rumbled menacingly, like it might just rebel if he wasn't careful, but for now the nausea was passing. He heard the sound of a dog barking, and a baby crying. Rain was beginning to patter on the windows, like tiny arrows raining against castle walls. John sat up (a little abruptly; his head swam) and swallowed some more tea, taking this chance to observe Sherlock, who was absorbed in his work.

It was almost like when he was out on a case. His brows were furrowed, muscles growing rigid with concentration as he moved a greenish substance alongside something brown. John could faintly smell the scent of chemicals, but he couldn't detect their exact origin. He looked at Sherlock's face, which could use some filling out, and vowed that he would make him eat from then on. Maybe if he threatened not to eat, Sherlock would be forced to. It was a rather good plan. John smiled briefly and let his head fall back onto a pillow, and found himself dizzied by the sudden movement.

Cuddled the pillow to his chest, John groaned purposefully. He heard Sherlock perk up from wherever he was in the kitchen, and smelled him as he padded closer. The chemical smell was stronger with him, and his protective goggles made John want to chuckle. "Take off your gloves," he whined. "The smell is making me sick." Another soft groan and Sherlock was back in the kitchen, washing himself free of substance.

...Was the bastard humming? He would find joy in John's pain, wouldn't he. The bloody alpha part of him probably thought of it as 'proof of his seed' planting a baby inside of John. He huffed, annoyed, and closed his eyes again, focusing on the stale leather pressed against his nose. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the smells surrounding him--the leathery sofa, the fabric of the chairs--all of it reminded him of home. Back with his mum and dad, even his sister. Nights where he would sit and study his father's medical books, family droning on or arguing in the background.

The scent of paper and ink, scraps littered about the flat, flitted through his nose and John turned, inhaling greedily. He tried to chase the smell of old books and home; a time when his life fairly was stress free. When he felt a pair of lips press against his own, John's eyes flew open. Sherlock hovered over him and peppered soft kisses onto his chapped lips, licking the skin wet.

"You look happy," John groused. "You're supposed to be as miserable as I am. As my mate, I command it." John pulled Sherlock down, pleased as he flailed, but not so much when he heard him chuckle into John's sparse hair.

"I'm hesitant to admit it, but you have a certain adorable charm about you when you are somewhat insensible." Sherlock's arms were planted on either side of John, making the leather cave. John nipped at his wrist.

"Shut up. You try to be menacing when you feel sick. I'd like to see how you would do."

"Remarkably well, actually. I have worked various cases when sick or elevated, and you know how the Yard fears me."

"Fear, right. That was exactly what I felt the last time I saw them. They were all but shaking." John narrowed his eyes inquisitively. "And what do you mean by elevated? You don't mean drugs." John had had his suspicions for a while.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up to reveal one of his forearms and a nicotine patch.

"Unless you are referring to being 'high on life', then no. The more interested the case, the more fun it is, and the sharper my mind. I'm not a druggie, doctor." Sherlock sounded a little hurt, so John pulled him back down for a kiss, trapping him by wrapping his legs around Sherlock's waist.

"You can't blame me for worrying. You look like an addict; you've barely any meat on you. I'm gonna need to fatten you up."

"Hunger sharpens the mind. I'll have you know I'm perfectly fit. Exactly how much can you bench press, John?"

John snorted and laughed at the same time; it was an interesting sound. "I bet you twenty quid you couldn't lift me halfway across the space of this flat."

"Is that a challenge?" Sherlock rumbled, which never failed to make John lick his lips. He wouldn't mind exploring possibilities with that voice.

"You bet your arse it is." John laughed. When he felt Sherlock begin to attempt lift him, he flailed and clung to his shoulders. "Actually, it wasn't. Don't lift me! I was joking!"

Sherlock did lift John (with...some difficulty), staggering back and eliciting a undignified squeak from his Omega. "Put me down!" John yelped. "We're going to fall and when you break your back, I'm not going to help." Sherlock walked steadily for his [their, his mind supplied] room, all the while trying not to smile. John shivered against him, burying his face into the crook of his neck in helpless fear.

Smirking, Sherlock moved to the bed and backed up until the backs of his knees were pressed against the duvet. He let himself fall backwards.

"You fucking bastard!" John shouted as they fell into a heap on the sheets, the bed creaking worryingly. But he was laughing freely, a sound which Sherlock found more beautiful than anything he could play on his violin.

Detaching himself from John, Sherlock then clambered until he was hovering over his prone frame. He planted a sweet kiss onto John's mouth, receiving an amused hum and his sloppy return.

"I'm still angry at you." John sighed against Sherlock's mouth, cupping his face to hold him there. The nausea had returned when Sherlock threw him on the bed, but his Alpha’s scent definitely helped.

"Pray tell," Sherlock rumbled, kissing his way down John's jaw.

"I said it before; you're way too happy about all of this. I'm miserable already. God knows-" he paused at that statement, sobering quickly. Sherlock sensed a change and removed himself, sitting up and scratching at his unruly curls.

"God is all knowing would be the proper statement, yes?"

John smiled and shook his head. "God knows what I'm going to do, because I sure as hell don't." It was conundrum; John really had no idea what should be doing, whether or not he should be prepared for hell, all things considered. He was living with a man who seemed half mad and was having quite the time doing it. A mad sort of giggle escaped him; one Sherlock didn't question. It was overwhelming, thinking about what he had left behind on a whim. John glanced down at himself; he didn't even think he had any clothes that would suit his intended few day stay.

"Mycroft will provide. Or Anthea; whoever manages to order clothing first." John would have to figure out how he read minds.

"Your brother seems awfully involved for someone you don’t seem to get along with.”

“My brother is hateful, but we occasionally ‘get along’. As two Alphas, you can imagine the how our childhood must have run.”

“Yes, I can.” John paused. “Wait. No, God no. I really can’t. Two Alpha teenagers? Imagine the testosterone.” Sherlock snorted and John motioned him closer, but the man shook his head and slipped off of the bed.

“Where are you going?”

"You will be grateful to sleep. I have to drop by the library and pick up a few things.”

John frowned, but didn’t question him. “All right,” he breathed, looking around, as if he might find something worth harboring his attention if Sherlock was going to be gone. “Grab a curry on the way back? I thought I smelled some the other day, just outside of the flat, and I’ve been craving it ever since.”

“Mm.” Sherlock didn’t look like he was paying attention anymore, obviously in his own mind as he left the room, so John reached toward the nightstand, where he had set his phone to charge after meeting Mycroft. It felt good to have connections outside of the Holmes’ family circle.

John groped at the nightstand wildly in hopes that he might be able to reach the last few inches without having to move. Eventually he awkwardly scooted on his side, struggling more than if he had simply sat up and grabbed the damn thing.

 _Don’t forget the curry._ John sent the text just as Sherlock left the building. He carefully hefted himself off of the bed and padded towards the living room again to watch some telly. When he was settled in his preferred seat, he searched for the remote and turned it on, clicking through the channels for something to entertain him. John wasn't interested in anything other than crap television, but considering his latest predicament and its causes, maybe investing in a little news occasionally wouldn't be the worst decision he could make.

John breathed through his nose, remembering the first day of his heat. It was becoming harder for him to continue to ignore the fact that he had another life, one he was deciding to leave behind on half of a whim.

He glanced down at himself. Maybe not completely a whim. Sherlock had become the most exciting part of his life. As contrite as it made John feel, he would be the first to admit that his previous existence seemed like a faraway dream now. He couldn't envision himself back in the 'village', as Sherlock had called it, omitting everything that had recently transpired between his Alpha and himself to that quiet life again. It was lovely in its own right, but something about it had left John unsatisfied and with an appetite for _more_. As insane and frustrating as Sherlock could be, he made him feel alive, like he was truly experiencing life instead of crawling along at a safe limbo.

John's hand gravitated to his stomach on its own, brushing over the woolen jumper he wore. His favorite; old and ratty and worn out, but it was the most comfortable thing he owned. Another poke revealed that aside from his own blubber, nothing was protruding too far. He did feel a little bloated, though. John continued to prod at the concealed flesh; it felt hard to the touch. John scowled. Bloating, that was a thing, wasn't it? God, he'd hated his Omega specific courses back in school. Pregnancy hadn't been in depth during their discussions (or maybe that was because John had never felt like paying attention), but he'd always hated the idea of being bloated and fat before the pelvis had even lifted.

If John was blessed, that would be the least of his problems. His little girl or boy was going to be tough enough.

“What should I name you?” John said out loud, feeling very strange as he did it. “Bet your father’s going to want something proper, like Abernathy. Or maybe his brother would be the type. I don’t know.”

John rubbed his stomach, closing his eyes as if to block out the world. “I don’t know much about your dad. His family could be rich or poor and I’ve no idea. His brother certainly has money, and he speaks posh. But he’s living on his own; bad relations? Wanted to get away from stuffy mum and dad?”

John hummed contemplatively. “Guess we’ll see. Maybe we’ll have that proper bonding ceremony all couples are supposed to have. I can’t imagine meeting his family. I bet they're properly awful. All polite manners and not like my mum and da were.”

Talking was soothing. John hadn’t been able to just let go and speak about whatever he felt for a long time. He droned on and on, eventually talking nonsense until his voice was starting to grow hoarse. It felt good. He felt good.

 

* * *

 

The door slammed open and John nearly fell off of the sofa. Sherlock strode in the room confidently, pausing at his sleepy mate.

“Oh. John, why didn’t you sleep on our bed? It would have been much more comfortable.”

John blinked blearily at Sherlock, hanging off of the loveseat by on leg. He was positive the ticklish sensation on his cheek was his drool, which might also explain the wet spot on the couch. “D-” John yawned. “Done already?”

“Finished,” Sherlock corrected. “I _finished_ an hour ago, but I spent some time reading. It’s a fascinating guide. I never knew how complex Omega biology could be. Did you know, John, that Omegas slowly but surely become less tolerant of everyone’s scents, save for their respective mate and/or father of their child?”

“Wha-?” John rubbed his eyes, blinking away sleep as Sherlock threw information out at him. “Yeah... yeah, I knew. Why? What is that?” John shifted until he was sitting comfortably in the chair again, squinting at Sherlock’s book. It was titled: _Your Pregnant Omega and You: An Alpha’s guide to dealing with your mate’s changing scent and body._

“Oh, God,” John groaned. “You didn’t buy one of those ridiculous self-help books, did you?” At Sherlock’s look: “You did. You don’t need that; I could tell you in detail what’s going to happen to my body. We have our _doctor_.”

“But it’s so informative! There are even diagrams.” Sherlock flipped a few pages and read the text quickly. “I deduced this for myself, but your scent is changing and will continue to grow throughout the pregnancy. Eventually my scent will be all you can stand.” He sounded positively filled with glee. “Take that, Mycroft!”

John closed his eyes and watched Sherlock pace around the flat, spouting facts like they had discovered the secret to Omegas. John was mostly amused by his behavior, and a little touched. Sherlock had gone out of his way to get a book to help him understand John’s condition better.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice sounded very strange; a mixture of contained excitement and wonder. “I had no idea.”

John felt his stomach drop when Sherlock sounded like that. “What is it?” Sherlock met his eyes, which flitted down his body and rested over his groin. “What?” Even more insistent, but Sherlock only turned red, and turned to the book away.

“Your Omega and you can expect,” Sherlock parroted, “a substantial increase in the Omega’s natural lubricant throughout the pregnancy, as his or her body is going to want to flush out the harmful bacteria.”

Now John was blushing. He nodded shortly, not sure why that was so awkward. Eventually he’d produce enough that sex would be fairly easily, and it would almost not quite be like heat when he’d get aroused.

“I could have told you that.”

“But you didn’t. You weren’t going to.”

“Nope.” John actually hadn’t thought about it, but he wouldn’t have had the guts to say so; he didn’t see a point in lying, either. Sherlock put the book down, thank Christ, and looked at him.

“Are you aware that you will most likely be giving birth on all fours? A home birth is common, even recommended for nervous couples, but hospitals are open for those who can’t afford such a situation.”

John sighed. Christ.

“I want a home birth,” Sherlock then declared. “Mrs. Hudson can be the midwife.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“The landlady. She lives in 221A."

“Your landlady is not going to be our damn midwife.”

“She’s very competent, I assure you.”

“For God’s sake.” John started giggling. “We’re going to get a real midwife if we have a home birth. I don’t mind it. Except, what about possible complications?”

Sherlock frowned. “Complications. What complications.”

“There are quite a few, and I suppose that’s life for you. Complications and failures all around.” At Sherlock’s startled, frightened look John continued. “Male Omegas have it harder than women automatically. Both of our bodies are built for this, but ours hold a higher risk.

“First time Omega births might have labor that lasts too long, though I’ve forgotten what’s it’s called. Something about progress. Anyway, it risks complications that include infection if things don’t follow as they should.”

Sherlock appeared petrified. John smiled. “I’m not exactly young, either. I would prefer a home birth, but if something happens, we should have a plan.”

“Mycroft.”

“Hm?”

“Mycroft. I will ask him for assistance. He may be able to provide a doctor on site; at the very worst we will have a car ready for transport. If you would like a home birth, that is.” Sherlock frowned, his decision now marred by irritating complications.

“We’ve ages to think about it. For now we’ll just continue the possibility of integrating a midwife if we decide to go that route.” She would need to periodically visit, and then eventually live with them as the date grew closer so that John wouldn’t mind her scent nearly as much.

“Maybe Mycroft could be the midwife,” John mused, restraining a giggle.

“Your humour could use some revising, John.” But Sherlock smiled anyway, the smile of someone overwhelmed by everything that was happening to him; of someone completely unprepared for the sudden responsibility. John could relate; he was a bit out of his depth as well.

“What about a nursery?”

“He or she will sleep in our room.”

“They’re not sleeping in our room forever.”

“Why not. We can have eyes on him or her at all times.” Sherlock's eyes sparkled with obvious humour.

“Because," John laughed, "they’ll need their own room. Our baby-” The words tasted peculiar in his mouth. “-is not going to sleep with us forever. At first I’m not going to want to separate from them, but eventually he or she is going to need a room.” They needed to decide on a pronoun eventually.

Sherlock shrugged at John and walked into the kitchen. “Yes, yes. And as you’ve said; we have much time to prepare. Ages, if I remember.”

“Don’t get smart.” John sat back in his chair. After a moment of listening to Sherlock putter around, he remembered something and sat up.

“You forgot the curry, didn’t you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many of my headcanons about Omegas and pregnancy come from the lovely twoeyesandallteeth on tumblr. I stole the self-help book name from her.


End file.
